Patch Wrote About Cups. Here’s Mine.

 He started it.

I was halfway through wiping down the counter when I saw the post — a few lines about a chipped enamel mug he swears pours better than anything else, like he’s not the same man who once judged me for using a teacup without a saucer. (I’ve forgiven him. Mostly.)

Anyway. Cups.

I’ve got one. It’s not pretty. A bit squat, with a glaze like washed-out denim. There’s a thumbnail groove just under the lip where your finger rests if you’re cradling it proper. I bought it at a craft market the summer my dad died, not for grief or healing or any big symbolic thing. Just because I liked the feel of it in my hands.

Now it’s the cup I reach for when I’m not sure what I need. Not tea, exactly. Not comfort, either. Just… something warm I can hold.

I’ve drunk a lot of late nights and early mornings out of this thing. Quiet kitchen hours. Not-alones. Once, I passed it to Patch across my knees and he said, “This one feels like you.”

That’s what a good cup does, I think. It holds more than it holds.