The Speaking Mug 💜

She woke up at quarter to eight, yearning to fall back asleep as soon as her mother walked out of her room. There I was, hanging in the kitchen on the rack, thinking she was coming to pick me up. But instead, she chose her other favorite, the one she uses for her warm water. It's been a week since I am hanging here. It is true that I'm glad she isn't used to drinking coffee every day, but I'm also saddened about the fact that she didn't even come to say hello to me. or could have just come to wash away the dirt off of me, maybe!?

Today, she finally chose me, poured in me some warm milk, mixed in 2 tablespoons of coffee, 1 tablespoon of sugar, and 5 tablespoons of water, which she considers the ideal proportions for her "perfect coffee" as she enjoys it frothy and foamy. You might be curious about how I know the specifics of her perfect coffee. Well, I overheard her sharing these details with her mother. She also mentioned that she prefers to sip it from her favorite purple mug, which is me. I am her favorite. She's so fond of me that she doesn't allow anyone else to handle me, just to avoid any breakage.

You should see the smile on her face when she’s having the perfect blend of her homemade coffee mixture with a pinch of cinnamon. Ah! cinnamon. I call her a cinnamon girl. Just like this spice she is someone who finds joy in the warm, spicy-sweet flavor and aroma of this fragrant spice, someone who appreciates the little things, finding delight in simple pleasures, she enjoys flavors that are both bold and comforting, with a hint of sweetness as she wants her life to be.

I remember seeing her cry her eyes out. It was in October of last year. She kept singing this particular song, she took a sip from me and began singing again as a tear fell from her left eye inside of me. She thinks that I can't hear her silenced cries and her inaudible roars. But I wish I could tell her that I felt every drop of her tear that fell inside of me from her eyes. I knew what she was going through, yet she kept enjoying the taste of the cinnamon. To me, that song sounded dreamy, had a touch of longing and immensely vulnerable. “Why does she even listen to such a song?” I wondered. Once I found her talking to herself about a guy. She said, “sometimes I feel like I am this cinnamon girl, who desires warmth, comfort, and closeness yet finds herself in a complicated relationship. I wish to be there for him, to give him peace and support, but at the same time, I have my own struggles to deal with and there is this pain of feeling distant or unable to reach him fully, yet no matter how many times he pushes me out, I find a way back in his life somehow”.

I wish I could tell her that she is the love she’s been looking for; that she is the kind of human many people aspire to be, but they are all stuck at this so called worldly “right doings or wrong doings”. Here, in this quiet space, she embraces the duality of her heart, and she still longs for the sweetness of intimacy, yet aware of the jagged edges that come with it.

Slurrrp! Aaaah! and she smiled. Today, she took another sip from me and this time she looked calm and joyous. Her eyes were shining this time, out of the battles she'd fought, the dark she was in all this while for a guy and trust me when I say that she keeps adoring me as she holds me in her warm and tender hands, as if she is going to break me if she kept holding me so tightly. Isn't that the thing about love? You break, and you don't complaint. 

She is as precious to me as I am to her, and I cherish each sip, each quiet moment, as her favorite purple mug, always! 💜