A China Cup

I saw it there and stopped for a while, perched dainty at the top of the pile of crockery, grubby, crazed and old at the yard sale, waiting to be sold. A teacup; white dots on baby blue; the same my mother would sip her brew of pale Earl Grey, in her Sunday best, though only on days we had a guest; usually her mother, my gran. On matching plate, a strawberry flan they ate, poured more tea, smoked cigarettes talked about their woes and rising debts. Other times, the cups were put away in a glass cabinet, on display. My sister and I would take them out pour pretend tea from the teapot’s spout. We always thought our mother didn’t know she did; we found out a while ago. “How much for the old blue cup,” I say “ten cents,” he said, took it right away.”