A Mug

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It was a small mug not to big or too small. The mug had pale pink flowers with lazy bees flying around the top. On the outside the paint had started to wear away and the enamel losing the ability of keeping the sides smooth and safe from water. In the inside of the mug would be a golden brown line from sitting to long half way through to do the days work. Every once in a while my grandmother would pour black coffee just under the lipped rim. So after every time she gets through drinking from it the mug would smell like coffee.

The mug was old for it had pieces glued together if it got broke off or little bits missing from the glue losing its adhesive. So as if to hide her embarrassing possession from companies eyes. After the Company had gone she would set the cup away and look at it trying to figure out a way to make it look a bit better the company eyes. She would sip at the side that a deep grove had been made from falling and the piece never found. Any other time she would have no care who would see her little cup.

For she kept it because she felt as if she got rid of it that something would feel astray. So she keeps it and keeps the thought away of getting rid of it. For she sips her strong coffee from that mug for it is the only one that she has and doesn’t want to get a new one for that purpose. Then she would put up in her almost bare cupboard until another day next to a few glasses. That share hairline cracks that when presented to company hides no shame. For it only goes to her lonely little mug with a chip in its side.





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