That glass-front cabinet stay locked like it hold secrets instead of dishes. Everybody know what live in there—the good cups. The ones don’t come out for just anybody or just any day.
I come by when the sun halfway gone, light slantin’ through the living room blinds. Mama already at the sink, rinsin’ cups that ain’t been used in months.
“You plannin’ to break somethin’?” I ask.
She smile sideways. “Only habits.”
She unlock the cabinet slow. Wood door sigh when it open. Inside, teacups lined up neat, all different—some thin like paper, some sturdy like they tryna prove a point.
“Pick one,” she say.
I reach in, grab the chipped blue one. “This mine.”
“Knew you would.” She nod. “Still like things that look like they been through it.”
We sit at the small kitchen table, chairs pulled close. Table scarred up, but clean. Tea pour sound soft, like rain on leaves.
“People think ‘good’ mean untouched,” Mama say, hands wrapped ‘round her cup. “But good really mean survived.”
I turn my cup slow, thumb fit perfect in the crack. Tea taste strong, honest.
Dishwasher hum in the background. Chair leg press into my calf. World feel smaller. Kinder.
Mama raise her cup a little. “To holdin’ together.”
I clink mine against hers.
Cabinet stay open behind us, good cups finally breathin’.
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