The Swirly Blue Clay Mug

My dad takes his coffee with a splash of cream, and absolutely no sugar, in the swirly blue clay mug mom made. I always pour myself the first cup since I like my coffee black and still hot enough that it burns going down. Then I pour his, and last I pour Lena’s. She takes hers with enough milk and sugar that it no longer tastes like coffee, so it never matters if it’s lukewarm. Our coffee preferences are a lot like us. 

I savor the first sip of that magical, acidic bean juice breathing life into my body before I start my day. I savor it the most at the breakfast counter beside my dad as we tear apart the morning’s New York Times, arguably the only home in the tri-state who still gets it delivered. I tried to explain there was an app for that, but in the last nine months of being home, the app has resorted to desperate notifications to get me to open it. There’s something to be said about holding a physical newspaper and drinking the elixir of life beside my dad every morning. 

Lena will roll in around seven, letting herself in through the kitchen door, snatching up her mug, and shimmying over to pepper us with questions until we pay attention. “Enough with the vaccine rollout delay in Europe. I have news from Mrs. Down The Street, and it is good.”

My sister, Lena, isn’t a gossip per say, but she appreciates news about tangible people. She wants to know if her neighbors are well and if her friends feel loved and if dad is showering enough. She has a big heart, Lena. She means well, even if the news isn’t always nice. 

At seven-twenty sharp we all part ways. 

Lena to her second grade classroom, Dad to his accounting firm, and me to the makeshift office in the sunroom. I have worked remotely ever since the pandemic began, when my company realized a computer works the same whether it’s in the office or in my apartment...or at my dad’s. It made it easy when I decided to come home for a while. 

With the first ping of my email, my peaceful morning comes to a close. I drink my coffee with vigor and less intention. I squeeze a workout in when there is a lull in meetings at eleven, add everything to the crockpot for dinner at one, wave to dad when he returns around four-thirty, and finish up my last call with the west coast at six. In the evenings I read or watch a sitcom with dad, and sometimes I’ll head over to Lena’s to spend time with her fiancé and their rowdy rescue dog. 

I have grown so used to the routine, of being around family again, I nearly fall off my chair when my company announces we can return to doing the exact same things we do at home, in the office once again. Even more so when my boss specifically requests it. I think of my vacant apartment in Chicago, and agree it’s for the best. I briefly consider getting my own rowdy rescue dog. 

On my last morning I come down to the kitchen at six-thirty, showered and dressed, to brew the first pot of coffee like always. I startle at the sight of my dad and Lena seated at the breakfast counter, the smell of freshly brewed coffee already in the air. They smile when I walk in, and I raise a suspicious eyebrow. 

“What-”

“We know you're trying to sneak out to avoid saying goodbye,” Lena interrupts.

“I said goodbye last night,” I remind them, slowly, “at our goodbye dinner?” 

“We know,” my dad agrees, clearing his throat. 

“Was it not actually a goodbye dinner?” 

“Dinners aren’t our thing,” Lena says with a shrug. 

“Mornings are,” dad adds. 

I am still rooted to the spot, eyeing them warily, when I notice dad is holding one of the plain, white mugs. I look to the coffee pot and see the swirly blue clay mug mom made beside it. I open and close my mouth and no words escape. 

“I have a travel mug for the road,” I whisper. 

“I told you she would say that,” Lena mumbles. 

“We just thought-”

“I should really hit the road,” I interject. I am fumbling for my keys. Everything was packed last night besides the backpack on my shoulder. I did not want dad making a fuss this morning packing the car for me. I am not one to make a fuss. It is one of the reasons I learned to take my coffee black. 

“Anna,” my dad’s voice is pleading with me, and I feel my chin tremble involuntarily. “I want to say thank you.” 

“Dad, I should really-” He is ignoring me, walking over to the pot of coffee and lifting it without my permission. He pours the swirly blue clay mug to the brim, leaving no room for cream or sugar. Just the way mom drank it, too. 

“We can’t say thank you enough for coming home, An,” Lena adds. Her eyes are glassy and I have to look away, out the window to my packed SUV. 

“You’ve taken care of us all year,” dad says quietly, standing beside me again, and holding out the mug. 

“It’s what she would have wanted,” I manage to utter. I am taking the mug from him, my cold, clammy hands warming immediately at its touch. Her initials stare up at me from the handle, and I fight the urge to cry. 

“The cup is yours,” dad adds. 

“I should really just use a travel mug.” 

“You’re not leaving yet.”

“I want to miss traffic.”

“But I saved you the business and international sections.” He holds up the New York Times and gestures to the middle chair.

“And you won’t believe what I saw when I drove by Mrs. Next Door’s at sunrise,” Lena chimes in, patting the seat. 

I look between them, knowing this is a fight I do not want to win. I shake my head and bring mom’s swirly blue clay mug to my lips. I let the first sip of coffee settle into my soul, and imagine her bustling around in the kitchen with us, too. 

"Alright,” I concede, shrugging the backpack off my shoulder and grabbing the business section with one hand and clutching the mug close to my heart with the other. “But only until seven twenty sharp.”