Coffee cup

This perfectly ordinary blue cup,
a simple vessel for coffee or tea,
belonged to my mother for many years
She kept it beside her through out the day,

It joined her when she talked on the phone,
Stayed on the desk when she she wrote.
She would top it off with warm coffee
And hold it close to her heart with both hands
When she sat deep in thought,
Her eyes fixed on some distant interior.

This cup was such a part of her
I cannot see it without seeing her.
She attached to the objects around
So deeply that they seemed human.
Animated by constant use until
They stood on their own.

The great leather bag she lugged about
With all her things: pencils, notebooks,
Bus fare, photographs: all necessities
For day to day encounters in the world.
Sometimes the bag seemed so heavy,
That i wondered how her small frame
Could shoulder so much.

The cup always stayed at home
Seldom washed and put away.
Blue, it waited by the typewriter,
Or on the counter by the stove,
An ounce or two of black sugarless
Liquid, cooling in the bottom,
For her eventual return.