I found a tea cup in a thrift store off Parham road. The rim was lined with golden paint, scratched off or faded in a number of places but still noticeably decorated. The handle was small, meant for dainty fingers. The soft pink calligraphy read ‘mother’. It wasn’t my plan to get all sentimental in a consignment shop but I had to take a moment from moseying the aisles of foggy glassware and tapestry to think of why I couldn’t just place this cup back on the shelf. I never lost my mother, but I am close to those who have. I was ever so spiteful towards my cousins, born to a mother who passed too soon but received the glowing admiration, praise, and pity of the remaining members of my family in an attempt to fill the loss. I never got cars as Christmas presents, or trips to Aruba following graduation. And after all the disdain I poured into my relationship with my cousins, I failed to remind myself that those gifts are fleeting. Those memories are not comparable to mine, nor do they have merit as a growing pain. A blue four-door sedan cannot replace the lipstick marks my mother would place on the wall to mimic fairy footprints shortly after I lost my front teeth. A night’s stay in a five-star shooting high-balls cannot replicate the happiness of seeing my mom’s face as I walk across the stage at graduation. While I say things to imply I might’ve given up a kidney to fly away to an exotic land, there is nothing worthy of replacing the presence of a mother. I spin the cup gently in my hand, the glossy finish is rubbed off in some places; presumably where a woman would have rested her hand on the warm exterior. I feel like this cup had served a great purpose, if only to coral hot liquid into the mouth of a mother (queue sappy analogy).