You have a favorite mug. I can tell because it's chipped and you kept it anyway.
You hold it with both hands sometimes, even when it isn't cold. I used to do that with my cocoa. You still do it. I saw.
But you don't blow across the top and watch the steam curl into shapes anymore. You used to say the steam looked like a dragon. Today the steam made a dragon and you were looking at your phone.
The mug says something on the side. A joke, I think, for grown-ups. Mine had a rocket on it. Do you remember the rocket one? We were going to be an astronaut. We told everybody. We were very sure.
You drink the coffee even though I know it's bitter, because I tried it once when you weren't looking and it was the worst thing in the world. You didn't even make a face. When did you stop making the face?
Here's the part I like, though. You washed it by hand. Slow. You dried it and put it back in the same spot, the spot that's just yours, and for one second you smiled at nothing.
So you still have a favorite thing. You still hold it with both hands.
Will you look at the steam tomorrow? Just once? The dragon comes back every morning.
It has been waiting for you.