'My Father Brings Home the Roots and Bark from a Sassafras Tree' by Debra A Daniel

“We’ll make tea,” he says, “like my grandmother did.” He’s cleaning off the dirt. “Sassafras tea tastes like root beer.”

“Beer makes you drunk,” I say. “Girls aren’t supposed to be drunk. I could get arrested and thrown into the clinker.”

“That won’t happen. The clinker is for hardened criminals,” my grandmother says.

“Ladies don’t call it the clinker,” my mother says. “Ladies call it the correctional facility.”

My grandmother huffs. “The clinker is more refined than hoosegow or slammer.”

“Or joint.” My father’s voice sounds like a movie bad guy.

My grandmother almost laughs. My mother flares her nostrils. 

“We’ll make sassafras tea like fancy English people,” my father says. 

“Sassafras tea will poison you,” my grandmother says. “You’ll die frothing from the mouth, gargling on spit.”

“Ladies don’t spit,” my mother says, “and they only gargle in private. Refined people never die that way.”

My father puts the roots and bark into boiling water. “Now everything simmers,” he says.

The water bubbles. It smells spicy and woody.

“Let it seep,” my father says. I wait to drink danger.

“I won’t witness the imbibing of impolite liquids,” my mother says and leaves. My grandmother wrings her hands.

Finally the tea is ready. He pours two cups, adds honey, stirs. 

My father and I take the tiniest of sips. Then we twinkle-eye each other. We both grab our throats, plunge backwards, crumple to the floor, and lie still like we’re dead from tea.

My grandmother leans over us like a vulture. She wants to be mad with both of us fake-dying right in front of her eyes, but she isn’t. Now we’re laughing, my father and I. Even my grandmother. We forget to finish the tea which didn’t taste that good anyway.