clementines by ava min

we have a friend who shows up on diana's doorstep every few months.

she stays for a few weeks, plays the guitar and sings, and then drifts back off to india, or thailand, or the next place where the flowers change color.

I showed you the mug she brought me from her last place of flight. you asked me how does she go to college? and I explained to you what a nomad is, and why nomads do online college because they don't settle down.

and you asked me what is her major and I said general studies because I didn't know what else to say because I didn’t know. you asked what general studies were and since I didn't know if general studies were a thing I said like high school but harder. I hoped you would stop asking questions because I wanted to show you the mug. it's a little pointy on the bottom and there are circles imprinted on the handle. the color is a london gray and I miss my friend whenever I smell lemongrass. she'll arrive at diana's doorstep again and you'll remember her as the "indian girl" but behind closed doors we all, together, pick photos from concerts and don earrings and brush eyeshadow with cheeto-dusted fingertips.

and while I want to tell you everything she is, like the way she locks me in with her eyes while listening to my stories from the seasons past, I can't. because she'll always be "indian girl". because a clementine is just an orange, because the TV remote is broken, and a child is only as large as the womb it grew in even after it leaves.

but now I have this incredible moment, this blessing, this pointy gray mug with my favorite tea in it. and I feel extraordinary sorrow for you, umma.

do you have any mugs from people you’ve loved?