The Mug on the Windowsill

The mug had a chip in it.

Right near the rim—just enough to scratch your lip if you weren’t careful. He always said he liked it that way. Said it reminded him that nothing lasts forever, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t still be used.

I never understood how someone could find comfort in broken things. I always wanted everything whole—new, polished, unflawed. He didn’t. He liked secondhand books with cracked spines, mugs with chips, mismatched chairs, and shoes that had been worn down at the heel. I think he found pieces of himself in imperfect things. Maybe he thought if something could still be loved after breaking, so could he.

After he left, I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out.

The mug, I mean.

It sat on the windowsill in the kitchen, the same place he always left it after his morning coffee. He didn’t believe in using coasters, and he never washed the mug right away. Said the day hadn’t truly ended until you cleaned the cup you began it with. That it was a quiet ritual, something that marked time in a life that otherwise felt blurry.

So, I left it there. For weeks.

I didn’t touch it. Didn’t wash it. Sometimes I’d wipe off the dust with the sleeve of my sweater, but I never moved it from its place. It became a sort of anchor. Or maybe a wound I didn’t want to heal.

People who came by told me to let things go. That clinging to objects only delays healing. One friend even offered to “accidentally” knock it into the sink for me—half-joking, half-concerned.

I said no.

It wasn’t just a mug anymore. It was a piece of him. A memory frozen in ceramic. A conversation we never finished.

Sometimes, in the early mornings, when the house was quiet and the sunlight poured through the window just right, I could almost hear him humming. He used to hum while making coffee. Off-tune, low in his throat—more a vibration than a song. Like a secret between him and the morning.

The house felt empty without it. Without him.

He didn’t die. People always assume he did. There’s something about grief that makes death the default explanation. But no—he just left. Walked out one Sunday afternoon after saying he couldn’t keep pretending. Said he felt like he was fading. That he’d tried to stay, but every day felt like standing in the wrong room, waiting for someone to notice.

I didn’t notice.

Not really. Not until he was already gone. Until his humming stopped, and the mug was the only part of him still showing up every morning.

Now, everything reminds me of what I didn’t say. The chipped mug. The shoes still sitting by the door. His jacket hanging behind mine in the closet. I should take them down, I know that. But knowing isn’t the same as doing. Grief makes a home out of hesitation.

Sometimes grief isn’t about death. Sometimes it’s about absence. About what’s missing that should still be here. It’s a silence that chooses to stay, long after the person is gone.

And yet, even in absence, something lingers.

I still make too much coffee in the morning, forgetting it’s just me now. I still fold the laundry like I used to—his shirts on one side, mine on the other—as if he’ll walk in any minute, smile sleepily, and ask where his favorite one ended up.

I still leave the mug on the windowsill.

One day, maybe I’ll pack it away. Maybe I’ll stop dusting it off. Maybe I’ll stop waiting for a sound that never comes.

But not today.

Today, I’ll sip from a different cup and watch the sunlight move across the chipped rim. I’ll imagine his hand reaching for it, fingers curled around the handle, eyes half-closed in the morning light. I’ll hear the hum—soft and low—drifting between us like it used to. Not a song, not really. Just presence.

And for a moment, just one, it won’t feel so empty.