The prompt is cup. That’s all I’m going to do – write about cups. I’m too out of practice and nothing much speaks to me anymore. (A tad or more melodramatic, but I’ve been frustrated recently). I have to force myself to sit down. Quiet. Drag out pen and paper and slide the ink across the page.

So…cups, rather, mugs. I use them. I have a shelf full of them. Two sets of four that match. I never drink from these if I can help it. Among those in uniform standing to squat attention, are the misfit cups. Two a dark brown with the word ‘Chocolate’ emblazoned around the rim. Another tall one, narrow at the bottom, with a cheerful penguin. My new favorite, a Christmas gift this year, a stone church with warm lights glowing and snow covered mountains and firs in the background. If it’s dirty, I will wash it rather than use a different one from the cupboard.

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The shape of the mugs, the way they feel in my hands, isn’t what matters. Although, I guess I do prefer the taller ones – stretch my tea a bit further. The best ones don’t look like anyone else.

I wonder about this – about my penchant for mismatched dishes. When I (almost) accidentally break a plate, I scour the nearby thrift store for a replacement. One covered in flowers, please. Dinner is almost giddy when I can see the little buds & blossoms peeking up at me between the food. Someday, I will have cracked all my plates and will set my table with a thrifted garden.

(I snagged this prompt from Amber Haines @ Run a Muck – I’m several months behind but so be it.)

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