The Mugs

The CFO was talking about his youngest—

law school, something, the pride

still fresh in his voice.

Someone nodded. Someone else's daughter

getting married in June.

I was holding a mug.

This year's onboarding. The logo still clean.

Around the table, a museum of elsewhere:

San Diego, 2003. Orlando, 2006.

A logo nobody uses anymore.

They'd been building this whole time.

Navigated 2008 as established professionals—

that's how someone said it.

I was in seventh grade.

The mug felt light. I didn't drink from it.

Listened to the recession story,

how they'd held on, how they knew people,

how it taught them something about resilience.

I thought about my seventh-grade self

in a classroom, not knowing

I was already behind.

The room was warm. Too warm.

I could feel the gap the way you feel

a door that's been left open,

all the air going the wrong direction.

No one was looking at me.

That was the thing. No one needed to.

The mugs had already told the story.

I was the newest mug in a room full of artifacts.