The Handle

It broke the way everything breaks—

suddenly, then in pieces.

The mug I'd held every morning

for five years just went,

slipped from my hand

like I was the one who decided to let go.

The handle stayed whole on the linoleum.

Perfect. Untouched. Useless.

I stood there looking at it—

the way you look at something that used to fit your hand,

that used to be the first thing you touched awake,

now just a curved piece of ceramic,

still strong enough to hold nothing.

The rest of it scattered into chips,

small bright pieces catching the kitchen light

like they were proud of the destruction.

I could have glued it. People do that.

But the handle wouldn't go back the same,

and I wouldn't hold it the same,

and the coffee wouldn't taste the same

from something held together by adhesive

and the memory of when it wasn't broken.

So I left it there for a while.

Just looking at the handle.

The perfect, useless, still-whole handle.