Robin Writes – March 14, 2024
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Sharing a cup of coffee
By Robin Garrison Leach
We have many coffee cups. They’re all capable of holding liquids. All have a handle with a hole for digits, and they are various sizes and colors. Some have words on them: “World’s Best Grandpa.” “Coffee Lover.” Even the dreaded: “Live. Love. Laugh.”
For years, John used the same coffee cup. It’s a black, unassuming campaign cup from a long-ago local election in our old neighborhood. He seemed to have grown attached to it, and the coffee stains within showed its age.
Then, a couple weeks ago, I noticed a different cup in the sink. Had he used the green cup with the big “L” on it instead? It wasn’t a problem if he had, even though I’d bought it at Christmas as a backup to My favorite cup. If he wanted it, he could have it.
So, John has two cups to call his own. The black Sheriff cup and the green “L” cup. One mouth, two cups. He is cup-rich.
To me, a coffee cup is personal thing, like a toothbrush or underwear. And I have only one I drink from. This cup just feels right to me when I drink from it, and it makes me happy with each sip of liquid caffeine.
The outside of my cup is decorated with delicate flowers and a sketch of the chubby Buddha. It is pleasingly round, and flares a bit at the top. I love the thin rim, and feel fancy when I lift its delicate weight.
The best part about my coffee cup is the surprise inside. At the bottom, in delicate script, I’m treated to an uplifting quote as a reward for finishing my drink:
“What you think, you become.”
I look forward to reading that, and each time I do, I think of a skinnier, younger me. It hasn’t worked yet, but I still enjoy the sentiment.
I’ve shared my life, bed, air, and space with my husband for forty years. And I’ve enjoyed it (for the most part). We have a joint bank account, a sofa that we both sit on, and I’ve even been known to let him sample food from my plate when we go out to eat.
I thought I was used to being half of a whole. Until today.
John was standing at the sink this morning, gazing out the window and drinking his morning coffee. His casual stance was familiar; I had seen this image of him thousands of mornings. It’s a scene I scarcely notice anymore.
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■ Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected]
