I’m sitting at the table staring at my cup. It’s funny looking, with a purple lid on top with a little hole in it. I drink my apple juice through the hole. I pick the cup up and turn it upside down, but it doesn’t spill.
I’m sitting at the table staring at my cup. It’s a Barbie cup, and filled with apple juice. I’m learning the alphabet as I sip my juice. A-B-C.
I’m sitting at the table staring at my cup. It’s a regular glass now, still filled with apple juice. My friends are here, and we’re talking about our new school and tying bows in our hair.
I’m sitting at the table staring at my cup. It’s decorated with stickers from the concert I went to with my class. I’m sipping my apple juice, daydreaming about the boy in the desk behind me.
I’m sitting at the table staring at my cup. It’s really big, because I have to drink lots of water to get better. They told me no more apple juice. So I choke down my pills without it.
I’m sitting at the table staring at my cup. Except it’s not my table anymore. It’s a hospital tray. They tell me I’ll get better. I know I won’t. I’m not strong enough to lift my cup anymore. It’s just water anyways. All I want is apple juice.