The Mug

Just a small gray mug reminds me of her. Recalling whether I bought the mug or whether I received it as a gift escapes me. I only remember who used it.

She liked her decaffeinated coffee or hot tea in it. When her husband died, she visited us often and looked for it each time. After awhile I automatically set the mug out for her. She said the size and weight of it caused her less arthritic pain.

A tiny, elegant, white flower adorned the front of the cup. I later thought how that flower emulated her perfectly. Her tiny height and weight, the elegance of her demeanor and dress plus the pure white heart she possessed were like the flower.

Now the mug sits alone in the back of my cupboard. I allow no one to use it since her death. It belonged to her and to her alone.

When I see it and touch it, I think of her and miss her. Many were the gifts she bought for me, but that mug is my personal memento of the mother-in-law I loved and lost.