The Mug

It came in the mail nine (ish) years ago,
like a bill or a jacket from Lands End;
basically unwanted, but necessary ... something people do.

"My Daddy is the Greatest Daddy in the World!"
pressure and a constant reminder of something I couldn't be ...
couldn't do.

I quickly forgot the words (had to squint this morning to make them out),
but kept grabbing the mug for my morning cup of possible.

I kept, keep, coming back for the faces, our faces,
the love, the hope, the trust ...
his, mine, ours.

The days and years, some good, some great, some less so,
have dimmed the image on the mug;
I can still see it perfectly each time I pick it up though.

My thumb, my lip, the dishwasher, maybe even ambient light ...
all of these things are stealing the picture from my mug
(but won't ... can't steal it from my mind).

My current plan is to live forever (it's working so far),
and I envision a perfectly blank, white, mug
1000 years from today, from this morning.

I will still see a happy and trusting boy,
a loving, scared, hopeful father ...
and remember.

Every second with Ben,
good time, bad times,
laughing, crying, shouting, whispering in the dark,
camping, sick days, homework, watching movies, bloody knees, paddling.

It's all there, on the mug ... even if you can't see it.

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