Greetings, dear friends. Today, in addition to a cup of coffee, I want to share a story with you about a very peculiar protagonist: this little cup.
I know that with its chipped handle, it's not one of the elegant cups we're used to seeing in this community. Please bear with me, and I promise to explain why I think this "commoner" one is worthy of a space among you.
I love coffee; it's one of the small, necessary pleasures in my life, but (keep this a secret) I never learned how to make it. My mother made it for me, and when I got married, my husband started making it, although he doesn't even drink it often.
He would get up early every morning, brew the coffee, bring it to me in bed, wake me up, and that's how my day began: with his knowing smile at what he calls "my bad manners" and a sip of the most delicious beverage in the world.
The cup I'm talking about today quickly became my favorite when we had our own house and tableware. It recreates a painting by a young Cuban painter, so my coffees tasted like art and Cuba.
Furthermore, in more layman's terms and to be truthful, its tall, pot-bellied design guarantees me a good morning dose, without a shortage. When it comes to the aromatic infusion, I have a real sweet tooth.
As part of his professional development, my husband received a two-year job offer abroad. The preparations began, along with my advice on dealing with his allergies, on financial planning, organizing his time, etc.
He only cared about teaching me how to prepare coffee. The exact blend of "criollo" with one of my favorite imported brands, the right amount of brown sugar, the slow heat, the water just below the stem.
He knew it was leaving a void in my routine and wanted to make it easier for me. For some reason, even though I followed every step faithfully, I couldn't get the same flavor. My husband brews the best coffee I've ever tasted (again, I'm appealing to his discretion; my mom should not know I said that).
One morning, with more time than usual, I stared at my chipped mug. Memories of the gift came flooding back, the accident that cost it its handle, the delicious sips, the relaxation, the enjoyment, and, always present, the beautiful fingers and smile of the man who was the star of every one of my awakenings.
Sorry for the low quality of the photo, it's a screenshot and the connection was poor that day.
The coffee began to taste different in my humble mug. Bitter with nostalgia, sweet with memories and hope, strong, pleasant, and inspiring like the love that unites us.
There are many other mugs in my home, of all sizes and designs, but this is the one I chose as my confidant and companion.
I can't wait for the day when I open my eyes again, not fully awake, and see it held in my husband's hands, supported by his smile and his tender rebuke: -"sleepyhead"
So, what do you say? Will you accept my friend into your fraternity, war scars and all? If you've made it this far, it's because you were somehow interested in her story, just for that. Thanks and a hug.
The writing is AI-free. The images are my property, and the banners were designed on Canva
