To the Teacup with the Cracked Rim
You’re not the prettiest one on the shelf — not anymore. The gilding has worn thin from years of turning, your rim carries a hairline fracture that would worry more practical souls. But I’ve never been especially practical when it comes to the things I love.
You weren’t passed down. You weren’t expensive. You were found — secondhand and overlooked — tucked behind newer, shinier things. But I chose you. Or perhaps you chose me.
You’ve held so much over the years: Earl Grey and green jasmine, lemon balm and lavender, tears that fell, stories I never said aloud. You’ve sat with me through late edits and early mornings, through letters half-written and seasons I didn’t think I’d survive. And still, you never asked to be replaced.
The crack along your rim is thin as a memory, but I know it’s there. I run my thumb along it sometimes, just to feel the softness of something broken and still beloved. You remind me that not everything fragile needs to be discarded. That some things are more beautiful because they’ve endured.
I could buy another. I have others. But I always reach for you — chipped, lovely, familiar. The tea tastes no different, and yet it feels more like home.
You are proof that not all broken things must be mourned.
Some simply need to be held a little more carefully.
With affection,
