So much of what lives in our body spills into this coffee cup, then travels through eyes, hands, and lips. With a simple touch, my aunt holds my cup and can already tell if my heart is heavy. She reads it to interrogate that heaviness, all while predicting my future.
Could it be that we have been carrying fragments of the past, present, and future here, too? What if the coffee cup is a portal, a liminal space holding questions, doubts, fears, hopes, and dreams? This impermanence reminds me of grace and forgiveness. Who are we but travellers between these lines?
