The Blue Mug

Every morning, I use the same blue mug for my coffee. It has a tiny chip near the handle and the glaze is faded in spots, but I always reach for it first.

It belonged to my grandmother. I remember seeing it on her kitchen table when I was little, usually beside a plate of toast and the newspaper folded in half.

Now it sits in my kitchen.

Some mornings are rushed, some are quiet, and some start before I’m ready for them. But holding that mug for a few minutes always makes the day feel a little more familiar.

It’s funny how an ordinary object can carry so much with it.