He opened his eyes in a sudden jolt, just as he had every morning. The remnants of whatever fading dream still rung in his ears, just as they did every morning. The fresh vision of consciousness adjusted to the grainy, blurred rendering of a coffee cup steaming on the nightstand. A lipstick red handle connected to the raw tan base of the original clay, now coated to a glossy enamel shine.
It was her second favorite coffee cup. A member of the nearly overflowing collection that had accumulated in their now shared cupboard, which once only held a single black mug he had bought from Ross, or Walmart, or any one of those cheap unremarkable stores who sell cheap unremarkable things. He sat on the edge of the bed groaning at the stiffness in his neck and held the warm clay cup in his hands thinking of that single black cup.
He liked that cup. It was simple and unremarkable and did its simple, unremarkable job. It had served him for years, faithfully. It was practical and pragmatic. It didn’t need to serve any other function or hold any importance. Now he has this lipstick red handled cup with a glossy enamel finish that sits in a collection of unique and intricate cups that she has brought into his simple and practical life.
“My sister and I each made one for Father’s Day.” He recalled her saying, back when she first took them out of the box to place on the shelf; the day his place became theirs. “After the funeral they were the only things in his kitchen worth keeping, so we decided to give them to each other to hold onto.” The picture of her melancholy smile reciting the memory filled his head as he fingered the scratchy engraving carved into the base of the cup.
He stared at her second favorite cup and the warm black liquid that swirled inside as he rocked it in his hand. He reflected on the weight of such a novelty that could withstand two decades. Born from the hands of a child and carrying on to this moment. He considered the amounts of lips it kissed, the amount of coffees it held, the amount of calamity drops it avoided, and cupboards it had resided.
An annoyance filled his mind. Annoyance at her for putting so much responsibility on him in choosing this cup. Annoyance at the fragility of the cup in his undeserving, clumsy hands. Two decades filled her second favorite cup, the nostalgia of a child, the love of a father, the tragedy of a loss; all contained in this simple little red clay cup that now sat with its entire existence resting in his hands. Potential tragedy was his, and his alone. The black cup holds no responsibility, no treasured memories, no tragedy. It simply exists in its own unremarkable world doing its own unremarkable job, with a warehouse full of unremarkable replacements.
His fingers moved over the rim of the cup as he stared into the black swirls. Steam warmed his palm and leaked through his fingers as the clay rim now sat in the creases at the ends of his fingers. Such a fragile cup, full of so many memories dangling in the air with only five fingertips keeping it from the hardwood floor. His annoyance in the cup’s fragility turned to distain at its helplessness. How something so profound could be undone so easily.
The now glazed over stare burned a hole into the back of his hand as his imagination played on the surface of its skin. He could hear the sharp inhale she would make walking into the room to see the pieces on the ground; see the tears fill her eyes as she comes to the realization that the mug and all the memories it held were irreplaceably destroyed. He would say sorry, and that it was an accident. She would choke on her anguish to tell him it’s okay, and that these things happen. A single moment would forever alter the course of her life and the memories of that cup.
His breath deepened, and his unflinching gaze was now miles past the cup. He relaxed his fingers, letting gravity ease away control and remove the rim from his grasp. Unblinking and unmoved, his eyes fixed as the red handled cup, her second favorite, turned on end in the air flinging its contents in front of him. For a moment, the base showed itself to him revealing the etched date of its conception, before colliding with the unforgiving end of its journey. Warm coffee splashed his bare feet, and shards of clay peppered his skin. A lipstick red handle bisected and splintered, as the memories of twenty years spilled onto the floor and into nothingness.
Her second favorite cup now an unremarkable mess on a cold hard floor. The date of its birth, now simply two sets of numbers on fractured halves. No more would such a remarkable and irreplaceable thing do its unremarkable job; a job that he would prefer to be done by equally unremarkable things. No more lips would it kiss, no more coffee would it hold, no more calamity drops to avoid, no more cupboards, and no more memories. It, and all that came with it, would be ruined forever.
He inhaled suddenly, sharply and blinked the images away from his mind. Back in the present moment. He straightened his back and looked up at her now standing in the sunlit doorway. He didn’t hear her the first time and asked her to repeat herself.
“We are meeting my sister in thirty!” She said a bit louder, accompanied with a warm smile, “Get up before we’re late again.” She took a sip from the unremarkable black coffee cup in her hand, her favorite cup, and walked out of the room.
He held his gaze towards the door for a moment and the corners of his mouth folded into a small smile. He returned to his cup and moved his fingertips from the rim safely back to the lipstick red handle and kissed it to his lips as he stood up from the bed.