It's just a ceramic cup. It fills the hands nicely when it's full of warm peppermint tea. It was smoothed and rounded by someone's hands on a potter's wheel. The bottom flares out like a belly. The handle is perhaps 3/4 inch wide and 1/8 inch thick. The cup is sturdy but not heavy. The color is many blues like the ocean. My friend gave it to me before she died so I could drink tea on my home from visiting her.
I slept in her house the night she died at hospice -- in the guest room where I aways slept when I visited. But that night I didn't really sleep. I lay in the bed for hours, reading anything. I wasn't particular about what it was. Sometimes I'd get up and wander around the quiet, empty house. Nothing felt real -- not the green walls adorned with quirky works of art, or the small kitchen, or her bedroom with the large regal looking headboard and all of her vintage clothes and shoes and the painted crutches leaning against the wall.
I found an old worn pair of slippers she must have worn and I slipped them on my feet. I had brought the cup back, but decided I would keep it.
A couple of months ago, my roommate used the cup. I said, "You might not want to use that cup. It's the one thing no one is allowed to break."
