The Three Oak Trees
I stood and looked at it for a long moment.
And then, for the first time, I picked it up.
I carried it to the sink, and I rinsed it out, gently, thoroughly, watching the last faint trace of that final ordinary morning swirl away down the drain.
And I dried it, and I opened the cabinet, and I placed it carefully back on the shelf with the other cups, where it belonged.
It was not forgetting.
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