Shungudzo

Shungudzo Instagram – While visiting me, my mother asked for
a small cup with a lid
so that she wouldn’t spill red wine
on my white bed sheets.
I told her I wouldn’t mind,
but she insisted,
so I got out the stepladder
and climbed to the top shelf
of the cabinet in the kitchen.
Up there, tucked out of sight,
was the cup that he gave me.
One of those cups that keeps things hot
so that your morning coffee
can still burn you in the afternoon.
I got rid of everything else we shared.
I kissed some things goodbye and
drove them to Goodwill.
I threw some things in the trash
and dragged them to the curb.
I slowly replaced everything
we called “ours”
with objects with no memories of mine.
They say if you can, you should,
but this cup, I decided, could stay.
I don’t know why, but I kept it.
I hid it.
I forgot it.
One large cupful of hurting
to drink down or drain out.
Twelve trapped ounces of healing
that I didn’t yet know how to do.
I baptized the cup
with soap and water
and handed it to my mother.
I remarked about its colors
and made some joke about
how at least he had good tastes.
She laughed and poured herself
a bedtime glass of wine.
Every night for five nights,
my mother drank wine from the cup.
Every morning for four mornings,
she washed it out and set it to dry.
On her last morning here,
she left it on the bedside table.
Upon discovering it, I instantly knew
that something about it was different,
but it wasn’t until I walked it to the kitchen
and scrubbed it clean
that I realized what had changed.
Today, looking at it on the drying rack,
it is still changed.
It is no longer the cup he gave me.
It is the cup my mother drinks wine from.
I am no longer the woman I was.
I am the woman that I am.
I got rid of everything else we shared.
Maybe I just needed to make new
memories with it.
Or maybe I did it all right —
letting go of the big things but
keeping something small so that,
someday,
my mother would use it
to show me that I am
all mine again. | Posted on 02/Dec/2022 04:08:14