By Rakshaan Fatima
I had a favourite cup
that I loved to drink tea from.
It was off-white and plain on the outside,
but the interior was a bright, warm yellow.
I'd pour hot water to soak a tea bag and
go outside to pick the flowers to add in.
In my grandfather's memory, I would pick
the flower off our rangoon creeper.
The sweet smell and the delicate flavour
made me feel at peace for a while.
But one day, the cup slipped from my
hands and broke into a hundred pieces.
I still carry the broken cup in a cloth bag.
I keep it in a box of my past things that
I open only when I move homes.
Such is the way of all things broken,
they stay but they fade.
We learn to live around them
but not with them.
I feel like a broken cup sometimes.