I Broke The Mug My Late Sister Gave Me
Dear Worlds,
Last night I broke the mug my late sister gave me when things were good.
Things were good and bad on and off all throughout her thirty-five years of life, but few people knew. The long periods of somewhat off behavior and the few bouts of psychosis we knew about weren't enough for a diagnosis, and she was good at putting up a front.
It's hard now as it was then to untangle the good times from the bad, my affection from my frustration, her mental health from her personality, but looking back on it, that mug - that, was one uncomplicated thing. One simple and good moment.
That day, she walked the three hundred meters between her place and mine and knocked on my door. She had gone grocery-shopping at Monoprix, a French supermarket chain that also ventured in tasteful and affordable home decor. She had gotten cute plates for herself, and a mug for me.
It was pretty and simple, which we both had an eye for. It was white, with hand-drawn alternating upside-down and upside-up black feathers printed on it. Not too long ago I noticed that a copyright was written on it, it said 2014. The year before she died.
We lived in the same neighborhood right outside of Paris for three years, then I moved close to la Place de la République. Four months later I went to Montreal for a month to figure out how to move there, and a few days after I came back to Paris, she killed herself.
All of this would have been enough to make me cry the way I did last night - paralyzed, gasping for air - after I saw the mug hit the floor, but there was more to this mug.
It was the only thing I took with me aside from clothes, my laptop and my guitar when I moved from my studio in Paris to a furnished apartment in Montreal, eighteen months after she died.
A year later, it was the first thing I brought to my boyfriend's apartment in Toronto when I started moving in, shortly after we met.
As he put it, the mug said "this is where I live, now!"
Up until yesterday, I drank out of it every morning, from Paris to Montreal to Toronto, first by myself, then with someone I love.
Out of all the uncertainty of immigrating in a new country, out of everything I have been reinventing here, my mug has always been a tiny but unchanging thing I could count on. A tangible thing that was there when my sister was too, which stuck with me in the aftermath of her leaving us and me leaving my country.
I have found that anyone who goes through loss finds a way to consider themselves lucky in spite of it. Lucky they got to say goodbye. Lucky they weren't there when it happened. Lucky they had the person on the phone the day before. Lucky they have something to hold on to.
I felt a tremendous loss when my mug hit the floor, but I'm lucky: it only has a chip missing on the top, and is slightly split in the height - but it still stands.
It will make a great pen holder.
Last night I broke the mug my late sister gave me when things were good.
Things were good and bad on and off all throughout her thirty-five years of life, but few people knew. The long periods of somewhat off behavior and the few bouts of psychosis we knew about weren't enough for a diagnosis, and she was good at putting up a front.
It's hard now as it was then to untangle the good times from the bad, my affection from my frustration, her mental health from her personality, but looking back on it, that mug - that, was one uncomplicated thing. One simple and good moment.
That day, she walked the three hundred meters between her place and mine and knocked on my door. She had gone grocery-shopping at Monoprix, a French supermarket chain that also ventured in tasteful and affordable home decor. She had gotten cute plates for herself, and a mug for me.
It was pretty and simple, which we both had an eye for. It was white, with hand-drawn alternating upside-down and upside-up black feathers printed on it. Not too long ago I noticed that a copyright was written on it, it said 2014. The year before she died.
We lived in the same neighborhood right outside of Paris for three years, then I moved close to la Place de la République. Four months later I went to Montreal for a month to figure out how to move there, and a few days after I came back to Paris, she killed herself.
All of this would have been enough to make me cry the way I did last night - paralyzed, gasping for air - after I saw the mug hit the floor, but there was more to this mug.
It was the only thing I took with me aside from clothes, my laptop and my guitar when I moved from my studio in Paris to a furnished apartment in Montreal, eighteen months after she died.
A year later, it was the first thing I brought to my boyfriend's apartment in Toronto when I started moving in, shortly after we met.
As he put it, the mug said "this is where I live, now!"
Up until yesterday, I drank out of it every morning, from Paris to Montreal to Toronto, first by myself, then with someone I love.
Out of all the uncertainty of immigrating in a new country, out of everything I have been reinventing here, my mug has always been a tiny but unchanging thing I could count on. A tangible thing that was there when my sister was too, which stuck with me in the aftermath of her leaving us and me leaving my country.
I have found that anyone who goes through loss finds a way to consider themselves lucky in spite of it. Lucky they got to say goodbye. Lucky they weren't there when it happened. Lucky they had the person on the phone the day before. Lucky they have something to hold on to.
I felt a tremendous loss when my mug hit the floor, but I'm lucky: it only has a chip missing on the top, and is slightly split in the height - but it still stands.
It will make a great pen holder.
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