The dusty cup sat on the kitchen shelf, covered with cobwebs, in my childhood home in Santa Cruz, which was up for sale. I blew off the dust and picked it up, surprised to find it after several years had passed. The delicate porcelain was brimming with tiny cracks. The faded pattern of red roses was reduced to mere dots. I traced my fingers along the cracks where my memories of my late mother resided—our shared laughter about random things, her stories about her ancestors, the gossip about the old lady next door, her golden advice during my moments of heartbreak, that devastating moment when Dad left us for another woman when I had turned twelve, fourteen years after their marriage, her silent tears falling into the aromatic steamy cardamom tea cup as she complained the tea had turned cold, salty, and bitter, the quiet companionship it provided her when she confined herself to her room, as she battled bouts of melancholy, staring at the swirling, misty clouds and listening to the pitter-patter of rain droplets pelting on our roof, seeping into the gap that developed in our relationship. The time when Ma would give one-word answers or blank silences whenever I tried to lure her into a conversation. The time when she mentioned, with quivering lips, that this teacup had begun to feel like a burden in her hands, which she said was a gift from Dad on their first anniversary. That time when she discarded it in a corner of the kitchen shelf, never to use it again. The time when she succumbed to a bout of rage, smashing bowls and plates onto the floor, or when I watched her once vibrant personality turn insipid. The time when she recovered and learned to embrace mundanity, watching the days pass with an expressionless face, as I left home to study in Berkeley, got married, and had kids. The time when I tried to find this teacup and take it along with me, and I couldn’t see it anywhere on the kitchen shelves. Perhaps Ma had discarded it for good. Whenever I visited home, Ma would serve me tea in a coffee mug instead. I never dared ask her about the teacup, fearing I would ignite those painful memories until today, when I decided to visit for the last time to clear out any unwanted items. I was surprised to find the teacup after all these years, buried inside the dusty shelves, almost forgotten. I wonder why she never threw it away. Perhaps hoping Dad would return someday, which he never did. Now I stand there, holding the teacup, mulling over the irony of how an object that was once a steady presence became a burden; those memories now fade like the scent that once rose from the aroma of cardamom tea.
