There are plenty of cups in the sea

There’s a little ceramic cup that my mother keeps right beside her coffee machine. Every day she brews her coffee and pours it into the cup. The cup is broken. It has been broken for years. The coffee trickles on the ground; a trail of coffee tears I follow every morning. There, my mother stands holding gently onto this cup. Longing. With dark stains running down her wrist. As if her hands were weeping to give her eyes some rest. Why does my mother hold on to broken things?

©️ Myreida Reyes (Mimi)