crystal blues

I broke my Dad’s coffee mug this afternoon. Unpacking a box in my office, a paperweight fell on it and smashed the translucent crystal blue glass into uncountable sharp pieces.

My heart broke with it, into those same razor sharp shards of glass splintered all over the small conference table. I felt it explode the same way the mug did when the rock hit it.

It’s just a mug.

Except it wasn’t.

It was his coffee mug. The one he preferred to use, every day. And when I used it, there was a tangible connection to the man that is not here to hold it himself.

My dad? He drank coffee by the bucket load. One of the scent memories I have from childhood is of that cold cup of coffee my Dad drank every morning, without fail, unless he had the flu, and even then sometimes. He would take the last cup of coffee from the pot at night, make his way to the bed and there it would sit, on the bedside table, with his glasses and wallet. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed when he woke, he'd grab that mug and guzzle it down, then rest his hands on his knees, sigh and get ready for his day. I sipped his cold morning coffee once when I was a kid and almost gagged. Strong, acidic and cold. I think that’s still the reason I dislike iced coffee. But oh, how I love that smell.

He did that EVERYDAY. Almost all of his life, really, until he got older and the cancer drugs made him sick to his stomach. Then he switched to flavored water, which he pretty much detested. He really wanted that morning cup of coffee.

When we cleaned out his apartment, I consciously left washing his mug until the very last act and made sure it was packed for going home with me. I don't think I told my husband or my sister that I kept it. It was for me, and for him. I brought it to my office. Where I would use it, five days out of seven, for coffee, tea or whatever. He wouldn’t care what went in the mug; in fact he’d shake his head at me if I told him that I kept him close by using his mug. He’d smile in that half way he had and shake his head. But I know he’d feel those tendrils of love in the act of it. That might seem a little weird to some, but it was our connection. That one little one connection I could touch. Last Friday, when I packed it away to move to the new office, I talked to it, almost as if I was talking to him. Letting him know what I would be doing, how excited I was about the new job.

And today unpacking boxes, I broke it.

Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe it’s a sign to let go and embrace what’s next. I’m going to try and view it in that light. Funny. He died just a month after my last internal job change, and here I am, beginning another change, and his mug shatters. I’m hoping it’s a sign to stop standing in the place that I stopped when he died.

He certainly would want me to move forward, pick up the reigns of my career and choose the direction. Which is what I’m doing, what I’ve done.

Maybe it’s time to let go of the thing, and hold onto the love and memories instead.

Just as soon as my heart ejects those shards of crystal blue.