Memory of Tea

I have a memory in which I am four or five. It is a very bright, sunny day, as most days in southern Mississippi are. My mother, Logan, and I, as Savannah hadn't been born yet, drove out to this beautiful field on the side of the road somewhere. It was full of these little red plants that grew on the ends of grass, which, according to my mother, were some form of tea plants. She handed brown paper bags to Logan and I and told us to pick the plants so that she could use them to brew tea later. We set off, and, although we spent what felt like quite some time in the field, I only picked enough to fill the bottom of my bag. The grass that the tea grew on was very tall, especially to a person as small as myself at the time. I remember walking about this little field, the sun beating down on me and my family, and feeling rather tired. The entire memory was, in a way, surreal. I also remember the bags full of tea sitting in our garage for the next year or so, because Mom had evidently decided not to make tea. Which was fine by me; the plants didn't look like any kind of tea I had ever seen, and I would rather have the memory anyway.