“That mug again,” Mother clicks her tongue, watching me cradle the white porcelain between my palms. Steam rises in delicate wisps from the jasmine tea inside, dancing like memories.
“It’s practical,” I reply without looking up. The mug, with its elegant crane motif and hairline cracks, has been my constant companion through three apartments and countless midnight contemplations.
Mother settles across from me at the kitchen table, her silk robe rustling. “Practical things don’t need to be kept for ten years, Mei-Ling. Especially not chipped ones.”
The afternoon light filters through gauzy curtains, casting shadows that seem to make the crane take flight across the mug’s surface. I rotate it slowly, watching the play of light and shadow. “Some things become more than their function.”
“Like marriage?” Her voice carries that familiar sharp edge. “Your father called again.”
I pause mid-sip. “Did he?”
“He asks about you. Whether you’re still…” she gestures vaguely at my empty ring finger, “…floating.”
The word hangs between us like incense smoke. Floating. As if my life without a husband was merely a temporary state of suspension, waiting to be anchored.
“I’m not floating, Mother. I’m choosing.”
She studies me with those obsidian eyes that seem to reflect everything and reveal nothing. “Choice is a luxury, daughter. Your aunt had choices too, once. Now she arranges flowers in an empty house and talks to her cats.”
I trace the largest crack in the mug, running from rim to base. It should have shattered the porcelain, but somehow it didn’t. “Perhaps she’s happy that way.”
“Happy?” Mother laughs, the sound like wind chimes in winter. “Happiness is not about being alone with broken things.”
The tea has grown cold. Through the window, I watch shadows lengthen across our small garden, where Mother’s prized peonies bow their heavy heads. The mug feels warm even though its contents aren’t, as if it’s absorbed a decade of held breaths and midnight confessions.
“Everything breaks, Mother. But broken doesn’t mean useless.” I stand, taking the mug to the sink. “Sometimes the cracks let the light in differently.”
She doesn’t respond immediately, and when she does, her voice carries an unfamiliar softness. “Your grandmother had that same stubborn streak. She kept a broken jade pendant until the day she died.”
Water runs over the porcelain, and for a moment, the crane seems to swim. “What happened to it?”
“She was buried with it.” Mother’s reflection appears beside mine in the window glass, her face a pale oval in the gathering dusk. “She said some things choose us, not the other way around.”
I dry the mug carefully, feeling its familiar weight. Outside, the first stars are appearing, bright points piercing the violet sky. Mother’s hand brushes my shoulder as she passes, leaving a trace of her jasmine perfume.
“Don’t stay up too late with your thoughts, daughter.”
The mug finds its place on the shelf, among other collected fragments of my life. In the dim light, its cracks are barely visible, like silver threads holding together something more precious than mere porcelain.