The Teacup

Standing in the front yard of his childhood home brought back memories he had forgotten about. They didn’t crash over him like a wave, though. They more trickled in like a spring shower. First memories that came back were of him playing with his friends on the front lawn. Tossing a ball back and forth, playing basketball in the driveway, fighting over the magnifying glass as they tried to melt their toy soldiers in the sun. It was too bad that they all lost touch as they grew older, but that just happens. It’s life. He thought for a moment on what his friends might be up to nowadays. His mom would have known how to get in touch with their mothers, but now that she had passed, he didn’t know where to start on tracking them down.

Walking toward the front porch, more memories trickled in. This time not as pleasant. It was of watching from the porch window as his father packed up the car and drove off. He was twelve when that happened. Thirty years later, the sting remains. Not like a knife he had in his side for years, but a mosquito bite that is more bothersome than pain. Irritation that he cried over it for so long. Anger that his mother never healed the way he did. That she slipped into a depression she wasn’t able to pull herself out of. Anger that he blamed his mother for it all for so long. And now regret that his mother was dead… that he would never be able to tell her it wasn’t her fault.

Standing on the front porch, preparing to open the door, he felt more anxiety than he thought he would have. He opened the door through it and stepped into the house, which seemed smaller since the last time he had been there. It had to have been three years since he had been to visit his mother. Between work and the distance, there was always just one more thing that came up preventing him from visiting. He would always tell himself that there was more time. That he would visit her next holiday or birthday. That he was just too busy to make the three-hour trip. He would come to wish he had thought differently, as we all do at one time or another.

He walked through the home, with the door still open behind him, hoping that some fresh air would help cleanse the house a little bit. Immediately inside was the living room. The small room wasn’t much different than he remembered it being. It looked like it had been cleaned recently, but that didn’t keep it from clearly seeing better days. The antique sofa was raggedy, and the fabric was faded by the sun. He supposed there should’ve been a sheet over it, but that wasn’t the case. It was a gift from his grandmother when his parents were married. A sort of heirloom he supposed. It must have been a bitter-sweet memory for his mother. Sweet, because it was her mother’s and grandmother’s before her. Bitter, because everywhere she looked in this house was a reminder of her ex-husband and his betrayal.

There were four windows in the living room, with nothing special about them. Small, square, and simple. All were filled with fingerprints, which reminded him how his mother would be driven crazy when he would press his hands against the glass to open it instead of using the handle. The prints now must be from the caretaker’s children, he knew she had three. Children will be children, he thought.

So many memories were held in that house. It was the house he was born in, raised in. The house he dreamt of running away from as a boy after a disagreement with his mother. Of all the memories that were made there, most of them he would prefer to be forgotten. Some however, were worth it to keep. Like the teddy bear sitting on the bookshelf in the corner.

The bear was a gift from his grandmother to his mother when she was a little girl. Over time, the fabric ripped, and the cotton settled, leaving the treasured bear flat and raggedy. When he was six, he had a streak of nightmares that left him in tears and sweating nearly every other night. When he found out his best friend was having a birthday sleepover, he was scared to go in case he had an episode and was teased about it. So, his mom patched the bear with pieces of her and his dad’s shirts, stuffed it with fresh cotton, and sprayed it with her perfume. With this, he was able to attend the party with comfort and there was nothing to make fun of. All the other boys had stuffed animals or toys they slept with too.

After this memory, a smile was on his face and he picked up the bear and placed it in a box to take home with him. It was moments like that he remembered how much his mother loved him and wished he had told her more often that he loved and appreciated her too. If only he had thought to do that before she was gone. There was nothing he could do about it now though. Might as well keep going.

He walked through the living room putting things here and there into the box to keep. A few books, some artwork, an afghan his grandma knit. Things like that. Everything else he left to either sell or donate. There wasn’t any use in keeping everything. He finished up and walked in the direction of the kitchen just past the empty dining room.

In the kitchen his hand fell on the fridge door, wondering if there was anything he could take for himself. His mother had only been dead a couple of days, there may be some stuff worth salvaging. He immediately regretted that thought as he opened the door. There had to have been three pounds of meat rotting away in there. He guessed that between being in the hospital and being ill, his mother and caretaker forgot to clean out the fridge. Closing the door again, he moved on to put her China in the box, along with her pictures on the fridge and a crystal vase.

He saw a small blue teacup sitting on the table. It was petite and delicate, with a blue daisy painted on the front. It was nothing special, except to his mother. Back before his father left, the teacup was an anniversary gift from him. Even after all those years of being alone, she still drank out of the same cup every morning as if nothing had changed.

“If he comes back, I want him to be happy I still use it” she would tell him.

For a while he believed her. He would hold out hope that his dad was going to magically appear one day as if nothing happened. Apologize for leaving like nothing happened. That everything would go back to normal. This didn’t happen. As time went on and he got older, he understood that there was no use in holding onto a fantasy. His mother never let it go. Day after day, year after year. She drank from the cup staring out the window. Waiting to not be alone anymore.

First he felt sad for her, then pity, then disgust. How could she be so stupid and clueless? Clearly, he was never coming back. She should just get on with her life. Find someone new perhaps. She never did, and he resented her for that. He thought she was stronger. He thought she was smarter. That was what put a wrench in their relationship over time. That was what made him move away and rarely call. On some level, he blamed her for everything.

Despite this, seeing the blue cup brought him back to his childhood and sparked a memory he was fond of. His mother was sitting at the table, drinking her morning tea. It smelled like peppermint or green tea most days, except for the days it was filled with coffee instead. Then it smelled like his father, who drank coffee as if it were water and it stained his teeth and breath. He climbed up onto his mother’s lap and asked for a sip. Smiling, she obliged. He quickly regretted wanting to ever taste that black water. It coated his tongue and he had to brush his teeth, which he hated doing anyways. Never again did he ask for a taste. As much as at the time he didn’t enjoy that experience, he grew to find it funny and cherish it. He remembers the way his mother laughed, and it brought a smile to his face. He laughed for a moment that he now drank his coffee black, even after swearing to never do such a thing. It’s funny how things change as you grow. How you change. Who you become.

He then felt so much guilt rush over him. He should have been there to take care of her. He should have been making her meals and caring for the house. Instead, he paid some stranger to come and take care of her. He rushed out of the house and straight to his car, where for the first time in thirty years, he wept. He wept for his mother, for his carelessness and pride. He wept for his mother’s loneliness and brokenness. With the delicate teacup pressed to his heart, he wept.