by Ariella Mendez
there’s a chipped ceramic mug
sitting on my kitchen shelf
nothing special,
just a faded blue rim
and a handle worn smooth
from years of being held.
It?s the mug I reach for
without thinking,
the one that somehow fits
my hands better than the rest,
as if it remembers me.
It’s followed me through moves,
through seasons of leaving
and learning to arrive again.
I’ve packed it in boxes
lined with old newspapers,
unwrapped it in unfamiliar rooms
that didn’t feel like mine
until that moment.
when I pour tea into it,
the steam rising in soft spirals,
I feel something settle
a small, steady reminder
that home isn’t always a place.
Sometimes it’s an object
that has witnessed you
long enough to stay.
About the Author
Ariella is a poet, and she is driven by a belief in fair, accessible care and uses her voice to advocate for meaningful change.