Image credit: Pixabay
Bittersweet
by Jaundré van Breda
“So, tell me. What’s the story behind this cup?” Phil asked.
To a stranger, I suppose that this cup is just an empty cup, but to me, it holds the essence of everything I once had; things I once cherished and loved. Most of all, it reminds me of her.
I’ve emptied this cup a thousand times before. I’ve seen her raise it to her lips. Yes. I followed each sip she took until joyous tears surfaced above the wine of celebration - a wedding anniversary, a birthday party, or even the beginning of a smile; her smile.
On nights like this, we shared the same cup. On nights like this, I poured myself into her arms and over-spilled into an already-fading dream, a dream shaped as hands cupped together. Hands that knew the shape of her soul and that could feel each anything-but-hollow beat of her heart; hands that could let go of everything but her smile.
After Phil left, I sat a moment longer and reminisced. Half full with memories but filled to the brim with love, I raised the cup once more to my lips, and I drank deeply.
“So, tell me. What’s the story behind this cup?” Phil asked with a big grin on his face.
“There’s no story,” I said, looking away. Phil always told me that I was a bad liar, and he probably noticed it once more. I thought it didn’t matter. Especially not now.
Jaundré van Breda © 2021