Aunt Carol's mug

Found it, finally, behind the chipped

Pyrex bowl, the one I actually use.

Aunt Carol's mug, with its bright, badly drawn

flowers, a pink too loud, a green too thin.

It has a tiny chip, already, near the rim,

like a bad omen for the coffee I'd sip.

I remembered her face, waiting for my praise,

that 'Oh, it's just what I needed!' that always plays

so easy on the tongue, a polite facade,

and then the quick tuck-away, this ceramic shard

of obligation, still smelling faintly of stale,

or maybe just old, coffee. A small, sad trail

of what was never really mine to keep or claim.

It's got a sticky spot where the price tag came

off, not quite clean. Just like the lie.