A whimsical and charming first-person narrative from the perspective of a handmade mug. It humorously reflects on its unique role, flaws, and everyday interactions with the maker, cats, and even a mass-produced Stanley tumbler. The mug's personality and perspective bring a playful touch to the mundane tasks of holding tea and surviving the dish drainer. Through its storytelling, the mug subtly conveys themes of individuality, resilience, and appreciation for handmade craftsmanship.
My body feels quite warm right now. I sit on a coffee table, filled to my brim with tea. To my left is a stack of books, and to my right sits a cat. I sense the cat might stick its head into my mouth at any moment. Maybe if I just sit here quietly, the cat won’t knock me over onto the floor. The clicking of fingers on a nearby keyboard fills the air, accompanied by classical music playing softly in the background. I have one job: to hold this tea until it’s sipped empty.
The only reason I’m still around is because of a small crack in my bottom. All my other family and friends were sold off to good homes, but I get to stay here with the maker. How lucky am I? Like the knotted and twisted tree spared from the sawmill, my little flaw has allowed me to last much longer than the others—unless, of course, I get dropped in the sink while being washed.
The clicking on the keyboard has stopped, replaced by faint snoring. Wonderful. Now it’s just me and the cat who are still awake. The tea I’m holding is only half gone. Outside the window, snow falls softly, but I can’t see much beyond the tall stack of books. I am used almost every day. I have a sneaking suspicion that I might be a favorite.
The Stanley tumbler, though, absolutely despises me. We sat next to each other in the car cup holders once, and Stanley wouldn’t stop talking about himself—how excellent he was, how popular. I had to burst his bubble and point out that there are millions of him but only one of me. I asked if anyone would miss him if he were gone, given how many replicas exist. That shut Stanley up. He knows I’m handmade and handled differently. My spring handle was put on by the maker’s own hands.
Now I’m empty, tossed into the sink with the others. We all try to keep to ourselves until we’re tumble-stacked in the dish drainer. That’s when things get uncomfortable. And here comes the cat, jumping onto the counter. Please, don’t let it be me that gets pushed over the edge. I still have a lot of work left to do before I finally crack.
If I was living today a second time I would have:
Made better choices and took time to learn a new process.
Things I am grateful for:
The Chilie my wife made before I went to work on night shift. It was so good and she is a great cook.
If I get to live to be 86 I only have:
13186 days left.