The Coffee Cup

A cup was bought, in 2016, in a small pottery shop in a town whose name is no longer remembered. The cup is large, and white, with a small green line near the rim. The handle is slightly too small for the hand that holds it. The bottom is, in a way that has come to be charming, slightly uneven.

The cup has been used, by a single woman, on most days, for ten years. The cup has been used, by the woman, for coffee in the morning, for tea in the afternoon, and, on occasional winter evenings, for hot chocolate. The cup has been used, in moments of particular need, for cold water — the cup makes, by the woman's own description, cold water taste like a particular kind of cold water.

Four other cups have been broken, by the woman, in the ten years the cup has been used. The cup has not, in the ten years the cup has been used, been broken.

The shop

The shop was small. The shop had, in the front window, a few pieces of pottery. The shop had, in the back, a small kiln. The shop had, on the wall, a photograph of the potter, who was, by most accounts, the owner.

The potter was a woman in her seventies. The potter had white hair. The potter had hands that looked, in the way potters' hands look, like the hands had been doing this for a long time. The potter made, by the looks of it, mostly mugs. The mugs were mostly one color — a kind of grey that is sometimes called stone, sometimes dove, sometimes the color of a cloud that is about to rain.

The cup was the only cup in the shop that was, in any visible way, different. The cup was white. The cup had the green line. The cup had, on the bottom, a small mark — the potter's signature, by most accounts, though the mark could be the mark of the kiln.

The cup was paid for, by the woman, in cash. The cup was paid for, in cash, more than the woman would, in retrospect, have paid for a mug. The cup was wrapped, by the potter, in tissue paper, in a small paper bag. The cup was carried, by the woman, on a train, home.

What has been learned, about cups

The cup has, in the ten years the cup has been used, taught the woman that some objects are, in fact, better than other objects.

The cup is, by any standard measure of cups, not a particularly good cup. The cup is, by absolute measurements, a slightly misshapen, slightly small-handled, slightly off-color cup. The cup does not, by any measure, qualify as elegant. The cup does not, by any measure, qualify as practical.

The cup is, by other measures, the cup. The cup is, by other measures, the cup the woman reaches for, on most mornings, when the woman is making coffee. The cup is, by other measures, the cup the woman reaches for, on most afternoons, when the woman is making tea. The cup is, by other measures, the cup the woman has, on most evenings, on the small table beside the chair where the woman reads.

The cup is, by the woman's own description, the cup the woman has tried, in the years the cup has been used, to replace. The woman tried, in 2019, a smaller cup, in a different shop, because the woman thought a smaller cup would be, in some way, more elegant. The smaller cup was used, by the woman, for three weeks, and was then put in the back of the cabinet. The smaller cup has not, in the years since, been taken out.

The woman tried, in 2022, a slightly larger cup, also in a different shop, because the woman thought a larger cup would be, in some way, more practical. The larger cup was used, by the woman, for two months, and was then put in the back of the cabinet. The larger cup is, currently, sitting in the back of the cabinet.

The white cup with the green line is, on most mornings, on the counter. The white cup with the green line is, on most evenings, in the woman's hand.

Why the cup is kept

The cup is kept because the woman has, in the years the cup has been used, attached to the cup in a way the woman cannot, in any clean sense, explain.

The cup is, by any practical measure, not irreplaceable. Cups of similar size and shape are, by any practical measure, available in shops that sell pottery. Cups of similar size and shape are, on the internet, in the abstract, infinite.

The cup is, by other measures, irreplaceable. The cup is, by other measures, the cup the woman bought, on a train, in 2016, after a day the woman no longer remembers. The cup is, by other measures, the cup that has been, on most mornings, in the woman's hand. The cup is, by other measures, the cup that has, in ten years, become, in a way the woman did not plan, a part of the day.

The cup is, by the woman's own description, one of a small number of objects the woman has, in the woman's life, attached to. The watch the woman's father gave the woman, in 2003, is one. The chair the woman has had since college is one. The apron the woman bought last winter, in the East Village, is one. The cup is one.

The objects are, by any objective measure, not irreplaceable. The objects are, by other measures, irreplaceable.

What has been said

The woman has been told, by various people, that the woman should not be attached to a coffee cup.

The woman has been told, by a friend who lives a life of what the friend describes as radical impermanence, and who has, in the years the woman has known the friend, given away, in various waves, most of the friend's possessions. The woman has been told, by a partner, in the early years of the partnership, who was, in the abstract, concerned about the woman's tendency to keep things.

The woman has, in the years the woman has been told, decided that the friend is, in the abstract, right. The partner was, in the abstract, right. The cup is not, in any objective sense, important. The cup is, in some other sense, important.

The woman has, in the years the woman has been told, also decided that the abstract is not, in fact, the point. The point, the woman has decided, is that some objects become, in the course of a life, more than the objects are. The point, the woman has decided, is that the cup, in the ten years the cup has been used, has become, in a way the woman did not plan, a part of the day. The point, the woman has decided, is that the day, without the cup, would be a slightly different day.

What will happen to the cup

What will happen to the cup is, in the abstract, not known.

The cup could, in some plausible future, be dropped. The cup could, in some plausible future, be lost. The cup could, in some plausible future, be given away. The cup is not, in any of these futures, planned to be done with.

The cup is, in the abstract, planned to be kept. The cup is, in the abstract, planned to be used. The cup is, in the abstract, planned to be used, on most mornings, for coffee, and on most evenings, for tea.

The cup is, in the abstract, planned to be held, on most days, in the hand.

This morning

This morning, the cup is on the counter, where the cup was left last night. The coffee is brewing. The light, in the kitchen, is coming in at an angle the woman has, in the years the woman has lived in the apartment, come to know.

The coffee is going to be poured, by the woman, into the cup. The cup is going to be held, by the woman, with both hands, because the cup is, in some way, easier to hold with both hands. The coffee is going to be drunk, by the woman, slowly, in the way the woman drinks coffee on most mornings, standing at the kitchen window.

The cup is going to be looked at, by the woman, briefly. The cup is going to be noticed, by the woman, as the cup is noticed on most mornings, for the small unevenness at the bottom. The cup is going to be thought about, by the woman, briefly, as the cup is thought about on most mornings.

The cup is going to be put, by the woman, in the sink, when the woman is done. The cup is going to be washed, by the woman, later, in the way the cup is washed on most days. The cup is going to be put, by the woman, on the counter, where the cup will sit, until the next morning.

The cup is, in a moment, going to be in the woman's hand.