She has held that mug so long the coffee inside has gone cold, and she has not noticed, because she is only holding it to have something warm in her hands while she reads. I remember that. Choosing the chipped one on purpose. The way the heat comes through the ceramic first at the fingertips, then the whole palm, then somewhere behind the wrist that has no name.
She wraps both hands around it now without looking, the way you hold something you trust. Her thumb finds the old crack near the handle and rubs it, back and forth, thinking about none of this. She will pour the cold half down the sink in a minute and grumble.
She does not know that the grumble is a luxury. To be annoyed at your own coffee, to have a mouth that can taste it going stale, to have hands that can be too warm and want to set the thing down.
The steam is gone. The little curl of it that used to fog the window in the morning, that she used to wave away like it was in her way. It was never in your way. It was the whole quiet miracle of it, the water made visible, rising off a thing you made just to sit and hold.
Drink it warm, love. Burn your tongue a little. Let it be too hot and complain about it out loud, to no one, in your empty kitchen.
I would give back every year I ever had for one more mouthful I was too busy to taste.