My Only Cup . . .

 That was my last cup. My only cup, actually. I've only ever had but the one. It's necessary that I repair it, lest I forever cease to partake in brewed beverages of bitter, warm, sweet, Heavenly indulgence. And that is as essential to life as air, for without such things, existence ceases to be life but rather devolves into a state of survival and nothing more. So now I'm left to pick up the pieces of my carelessness. Again.

It's tedious, delicate work, reassembling broken ceramic dishes. It can take quite a while, but it's worth it. Cups like this, you can't just buy from the store. A sentimental thing, it is to be carrying the weight of the generations it's passed through to end up in my hands. Every last fragment must be found and aligned like a puzzle. Brushed lightly with polyvinyl and held in place for adequate time; if not held long enough, it falls back apart with caked glue that has to be removed from its edges, and the process must start over. It requires patience, gentleness and strength, steadiness and force. The cracks may be unattractive, even repulsive at first, but in time they become as details of the piece's beauty, contributing to the overall appreciation of the cup as a whole, adding to the history another story, another fall, another healing, another failure . . . Another failure. Failure. Another failure . . . No, another triumph. Not just new existence, but new life. Frailties overcome.