Losing a friend is hard, even when the “friend” is a mug.
My friend is heavier than most mugs, so it didn’t crack when dropped during hand drying. Instead, the handle splintered into pieces.
The mug came to me 30-plus years ago. It survived a thousand uses, a thousand washings and the multiple purges that every household must mount to prevent mug clutter.
Oh, what a master of utility. Over decades, the mug served coffee but also hot tea and cocoa. Water. Juice. Those cold remedies for which lemony powder is dissolved in hot water.
And soup, cereal, ramen, ice cream. The mug’s inside bears countless grayish marks where spoons scraped the white surface, each scratch a prelude to something tasty.
We connect to some objects in this way, don’t we? To objects with little actual value but big-to-us emotional value. I have others – a handwoven coaster I made 44 years ago, an even older mug from college.
The objects’ value lies in memories, not the things themselves. Take those scratches inside the broken mug.
Not scars.
Caresses of remembrance.
Memories, more memories
No jelly smears or butter blobs
I have so many such friends. Hate to let go of anything! Well done, Jeff.
I enjoyed reading this. You are such a fine writer, Jeff!
Ahhhhh. Thank you, Carrie.