This little brown cup was claimed on a bright Sunday morning at a small yard sale. The girl who picked it up loved the shape of its ceramic walls, and its deep chestnut color, lacquered in glaze. It was small, and felt warm and snug between her hands. She imagined sipping rich hot chocolate from it during the winter, and paid sixty cents to call it her own.
She took it home, and washed it with soap and water. She filled the cup up with some milk to drink, but she couldn’t seem to bring the rim to her lips. She emptied the cup, and washed it again. Scrubbed it inside and out. Soaked it overnight in suds. The next morning, she filled it with some juice. It was emptied into the sink.
A lesson was learned. She just couldn’t get comfortable with the idea of secondhand kitchenware.
So the little mug was wrapped in newspaper. And winter passed.
Then spring came, and the roses at home came to full bloom.
Snip, snip, snip.
And the little brown cup was unwrapped.
And filled with flowers.