Cups I’ve Kept

[dustandhoney]

 I’ve always loved cups.

Not for drinking, necessarily — though I do that, too. But for the way they hold things: heat, memory, comfort. They’re a kind of tenderness, shaped into porcelain and clay.

I have a cupboard of mismatched mugs and delicate teacups, some chipped, some too fine to use. None of them match. All of them matter.

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There’s a blue and white one with hairline cracks spidering out from the rim — thrifted for 60p, and I’ve loved it more than anything from a set. It’s too fragile for hot tea now, but I keep it on a shelf with rosemary sprigs in it. Rae once told me it looked like it belonged in a storybook.

There’s one with tiny violets along the rim, left to me by my grandmother. I only drink out of it when I’m reading something she would have liked — usually Austen or something with letters. It still smells faintly of her perfume, though that might be imagined.

There’s the one Rae gave me, though she pretended it wasn’t a gift. She left it on the counter at the café one morning and said, “You break everything delicate. Try this one.” It’s heavy, handmade, earthy. I haven’t chipped it yet.

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And then there’s the one I don’t use anymore.

White china, fine as breath. Gold band around the rim, worn down from use. It came from a charity shop and felt like hope at the time. I drank out of it the morning I left the city — my whole life in the back of a car and no idea what came next. I wrapped it in a cardigan when I packed, and I still do. Every time I move, I swaddle it gently, as if I might need it again. As if it remembers something I don’t.

I don’t know if I love tea or cups more. But I know I love the act of holding something with both hands — something warm, something grounding, something mine.

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I think I love anything that’s been held gently enough to stay whole.

 

Comments

[openpantrydoor]

oh Patch.
i read this twice with a hand on my chest. the rosemary, the violets, that cardigan-wrapped cup. it all rang so clear i could almost hear the shelf rattle.

i still think that blue and white one looks like it belongs in a storybook. like it should hold rainwater or moonlight or someone's lost name.

the one i left on the counter. that made me smile. it really was a gift, you know. just not the kind you wrap. i found it at a pottery stall run by a woman whose laugh shook the whole marquee. it felt like a cup that wouldn’t mind being dropped. that felt like the right kind of love.

i don’t know if i love tea or cups more either. maybe it’s the pause between sips. the weight of something being held.

thank you for writing this down. i’ll be thinking of it next time i reach for a mug and can’t say why.

gently,
rae