One set of them is from my regular dishes, one set of Christmas mugs arrived after a lively name exchange at work, and then there are many random mugs of all shapes, sizes and colors who arrived on a variety of occasions and stayed. I do not wake up in the morning with a cup in mind, but by the time the aroma of coffee fills the kitchen, I reach into the cupboard to fill one that suits the morning.
My sturdy starbucks mug is fit for hunching over on cold or formidable mornings.
Two mugs from Germany are pulled out only for special occasions.
There is a tall, flowered one that feels fragile, and asks me to believe,
a white one that says "Grace", and
a deep blue mug with a low round reservoir ... to name a few.
On a good morning, there is time to emerge from the shadows of sleep
cradling the cup that speaks to the day.
a response to a writing challenge issued by Amber Haines in this blog:
inspired by these words:
There’s a woman standing on her morning-tender feet on the hardwood floor, and in both hands she holds the cup, jolt hot, and she drinks it burning fast awake slow-poking her to the living room. A day ago she stood on a beach and even there she missed the creak in the floor and the low air conditioner hush of morning before the boys wake up. This is holy time, the gray of morning before the chaos of cereal bowls.