The cup

She was five. My daughter was five when she painted this cup. When she put her hand in the paint and made a print on the side.

“There is no way,” I thought. She just painted it yesterday, or Saturday, or last week. No, she was five.  She will be eighteen in March. I stood at my sink washing this cup as I have done over and over, dozens of times.

The date on the bottom 1998.

She will be off to College in the Fall. The little five year old that painted this cup in blues, browns, reds and oranges and wore little white apron, with long blond hair, or “white” as she called it.  The five year old who was called “Pie” by her older brother and still is to this day.


As I looked out the kitchen window there it was staring me in the face, growth.

Apparently, it did happen.  How did I miss it?  I tried with all my might, looking out that window to remember 1998 and “Pie” when she was five. It saddens me that the memories are scattered. So unclear.

A cup and “Pie”, they make a nice pair. I love them both.