543 Day Writing Journey

The Mugs That Thread Us. Day 513.

A chip on the edge is fine except if it draws blood or maybe if you’ve been wanting to get rid of it anyway, like the ones from the insurance company or your local bank. (They’re usually ten-ouncers anyway. Too small.) 

One time, a mug bit me in the hand, quite badly, actually. It was my favorite one shaped like an owl. It began tumbling down from an impressive stack of dishes in the strainer. I tried to save it, but it kind of blew up in my hand, piercing a large shard into the side of my right hand. I should have gone to the emergency room, but I waited until the next day, and it was too late for stitches. For a week, Baylee had to shift gears in the Jeep for me, and to this day, I have an unattractive and very odd bump.

My favorite right now is a new one from Tyler and Deaven. It’s smooth, curvy, and white and says “I’m at a difficult age” where you put your mouth, and on the inside, it says, “That’s it.” 

Our mugs are threads to our past, and they join our homes on special days like Christmas, birthdays, Mother’s Day, etc., and they tell the story of the people in the house. Upon a visit to mine, you will notice we are fans of Marvel, The Office, The Wizard of Oz, and Westfield State University. 

The contents of the cups hold our much-needed coffee, warm tea with milk and honey on a rainy day, and sometimes even tomato soup or peaches-and-cream oatmeal. 

We don’t celebrate our mugs enough, but offer them a sweet nod by replenishing our stash a few times a year. I wonder if they rejoice at their new family member.  

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