It’s not really much to look at – just a small cup with several chips and small cracks. Yet each time I hold it in my hands my heart skips a beat. This humble cup has been in my mum’s family for at least one hundred years. I remember it vaguely at my great-grandmother’s house and now it has passed on to me.
And each time I hold it in my hands I wonder what other hands have held it. Was it a child’s cup? Is it the only survivor of a whole set? It seems so fragile. How is it possible that it is still intact after all these years? If only it could talk … if only it could tell me … so many memories in one little cup.