These cups have stories to tell. We sip them, full of espresso, and we speak of life, love, loss. They have heard us whisper our dreams and scream our disenchantment. We have wrapped our hands around them as we make Christmas mornings memories. We have warmed ourselves with them, after sledding and outdoor fun, full of chocolate warm and sweet. We have tried to revive burned out bodies with caffeine; it never worked but sitting side by side and sipping never hurt any couple I knew. These cups join me on my window seat, rest on my journal, peak over my notes…know more about me than they should.
These cups are part of what home looks like to us. We fill them up, wash them out, repeat. It is part of the rhythm of family. They break sometimes; we knock them asunder. Still, we pick up the pieces, put things back together, try not to slice each other open. We bring each other steaming cups titrated with the right amount of sugar…he knows I don’t like things that are too sweet. We lean into thirteen years of knowledge of each other, we sit long with the little people who join us now, my cup overflows.