Chipped Cup

The most beautiful thing I saw today was a cup.

Dehydrated and sleep deprived- my rolling chair squealed as I pulled myself from its worn cushions in pursuit of a cup. Flipped on its rim, sharing a shelf with over twenty other mugs, it managed to stand independently. A gracefully wave-cut lip sloped into the design of a yellow flower, or ear of corn- it was difficult to tell. I assumed corn due to its presence in Iowa. The faded glaze and paint told a history of enjoyment, predictably late nights with many students who have since moved on. My fingertips anticipated the smooth feeling of china with the occasional worn or rough patch from an accidental chip. Hand outstretched like a child to a stovetop, it was time to grab “the chosen mug.” Surprised, I lifted the deceivingly plastic mug to nose- level, illuminated by the harsh yellow of florescent lights.

An obnoxious sticker, presumably from a late 1990’s label maker read,

PROPERTY OF THE WRITING CENTER 

Half tempted to pull it off the mug- I restrained. It wasn’t mine to alter. Washing out remnants of its previous content, I admired its beauty, and the thoughtless placement of the bubbled, curling sticker. My look of contemplation raised a snort from a classmate. Startled, the familiar time and space of the cluttered meeting room consumed my reality, but only for a brief moment.

Tearing open a bag of Earl Grey; watching the hot water expand the bag’s mass; the water turning an opaque chestnut brown, launched me into another dream- like trance… Water splashed past the elegant wave of the cup’s lip. My affection for this cheap mug increased as rapidly as its fluid content. Warm. Full. This perfectly imperfect plastic container held enough blunt caffeine to surely make me attentive.

The class had begun to chatter in the same casual yet productive manner that it always does. Topic: Essayist Joseph Addison’s examination of friendship. Consciously attempting to talk less and listen more, six- year old Chelsea carefully and gracefully carried the wondrous mug of exaggerated delicacy to her squeaky throne with lopsided wheels. I replaced the silence of cotton-filled tea guests with the conversations of my classmates. The soothing voice of my professor, like my grandfather’s, brought my attention to the stained and curled edges of my assignment book. Repeated trips to and fro class had not been kind to this paper back- shoving it in my bag to join the other overpriced academic necessities. Through ripples of Earl Grey, shown only small glimpses of the water- logged bag; I bounced the tea leafs for a stronger brew as the conversation intensified.

I have always enjoyed strong brew, an acquired taste I forced myself to develop. Artificial sugar somehow, I believed, would ruin the integrity of my beverage. With a lactose- intolerance, the excess flavors of creamers and milk are not a pleasant option.

It was more than love. I, a simple Writing Center patron, was trusted to enjoy this beautiful plastic mug, rich in its years and use. A mug that had withstood more lovin’ and Earl Grey than a China cup ever could. Drinking tea from this forgotten, strangely elegant mug. I felt special- drinking from something so beautiful that others may have not taken the time to admire. Lost in the conversation of college roommates and choosing bridesmaids, I sipped the mug to find it empty.