cup your hands

This cup with its damage. Knocked down, swept off the table; it was probably an accident. I don't remember the noise it made when it fell, when it shattered, though I know how it sounded because I hear it in the silence when I can't sleep. The frowny mouth open in its "oh no" shock and the cup falls, bounces, and then kkkksssssh.

 

The only cup I had, the only vessel, coffee and tea and juice oh my love. Damaged and irreplaceable. I set the pieces out and numbered, accounted. Step one, step two, and glue and glue. Pieces of the handle never to be seen again but I glued what I could and held it together. The glue dried. It held water. I wrap my hands around it now and it feels like more of a gift for having nearly lost it, hold it tight, precious.

 

You who want to talk about how it broke and when; you who want to talk about why I used the glue I did; you who wonder why I didn't throw it out; you who think I could learn pottery and make a new cup; you who, yoo-hoo. You call me and I can hear you but I am disinclined to listen, with my hands around my cup, its lacework of cracks are a map of my history now, and the steam rises from the tea in a beautiful cloud through which I imagine I can see the future.