Mom's Enamel Cup
In the drawer of my desk, there lies a faded white enamel cup. Emblazoned in deep blue paint at its center is the word "enamelcoo," and the edges bear a few shallow chips—gentle marks left by time. This is the last daily item my mother left me. Whenever my fingertips brush the cool porcelain surface, the old days with her come flooding back, following the warmth of the cup’s rim into my heart.
I first laid eyes on this enamel cup when I was just in first grade. That winter was unusually cold, and I loved lingering in bed, reluctant to get up. Every morning at 5:30 sharp, my mother would draw back the curtains and pour pre-warmed milk into the cup, leaving a thin layer of frost on its walls. "Drink up—off to school warm," her voice wrapped in steam. I held the cup, my fingers touching the warm surface, and my heart felt cozy too. Back then, I would stare at the "enamelcoo" on the cup and ask: "Mom, what do these words mean?" She would always shake her head with a smile: "It’s a mark from the factory, just like your name—one of a kind." Later, I learned that she had bought this cup as a souvenir with her first month’s salary when she worked in an enamel factory, and it had accompanied her for more than twenty years.
During the rainy season of my fifth-grade year, I fell at school and scraped my knee, blood soaking through my pants. When school ended, the rain still hadn’t stopped. I limped out of the school gate and saw my mother from afar, holding a blue checkered umbrella and clutching the enamel cup tightly in her hand. She hurried over and stuffed the cup into mine—inside was warm brown sugar water, its sweet aroma mixing with the dampness of the rain. "Does it hurt?" Mother knelt down to wipe the mud off my trousers. When her fingers touched the wound, I flinched, and she immediately softened her movements. "Drink some brown sugar water to replenish your strength—we’ll go home and put on medicine." All the way home, I held the umbrella in one hand and the enamel cup in the other. The warmth of the sugar water slid down my throat, and the pain in my knee seemed to ease. The water in the cup swayed gently, and the "enamelcoo" flickered in the mist, becoming the clearest light in that rainy season.
After entering junior high, I grew rebellious and found my mother’s nagging annoying. Once, after failing an exam, I crumpled up the paper and threw it on the floor. Mother picked it up, smoothed it out slowly, and poured a cup of chrysanthemum tea into the enamel cup. "One bad exam doesn’t matter—just try harder next time," her voice was soft, but I waved impatiently: "What do you know! Exams now are nothing like they were in your day!" I slammed the door and locked myself in my room. It wasn’t until late at night, parched with thirst, that I sneaked into the living room. The enamel cup on the table was still warm, and the faint fragrance of chrysanthemum tea filled the air. Under the cup was a note: "Mom doesn’t understand your exam papers, but I know you tried." I took a sip of the tea, its bitterness tinged with a hint of sweetness. Suddenly, I noticed that Mother had touched up the "enamelcoo" on the cup with a marker, the faded letters bright again—just like her unchanging tenderness.
Later, when I went to college in another city, Mother wrapped the enamel cup carefully in an old towel and tucked it into my suitcase. "It’s convenient for drinking water in the dorm—this cup is sturdy," she rambled on, tidying my luggage. "Remember to eat on time and don’t stay up too late." I found her tedious back then and tossed the cup into the corner of my suitcase. It wasn’t until the first winter arrived and the dormitory water dispenser broke that I remembered it. I poured boiling water into the cup, and the warmth seeped through the walls to my palms. Suddenly, I thought of Mother warming milk for me each morning. I called her, and she laughed on the other end: "I knew you’d need it. Enamel keeps heat well and doesn’t break easily." At that moment, I finally understood her heartfelt gesture—she hadn’t just given me an ordinary cup, but her silent longing woven through the years, a warmth I could feel no matter how far I wandered.
The day Mother passed away was also a winter day. She lay in the hospital bed, the enamel cup still clutched tightly in her hand, half-filled with warm water. The nurse said she had muttered repeatedly when she was awake, insisting on leaving the cup for me. Now, this enamel cup sits in my drawer, a silent witness to the love that transcends time. Whenever I feel tired or lonely, I take it out, pour a cup of hot tea, and trace the "enamelcoo" with my fingertips. It’s as if Mother is right beside me, her gentle voice whispering: "Drink up—warmth will always be with you."
That simple enamel cup, with its faded paint and chipped edges, carries more than just memories—it holds a mother’s lifelong love, solid and enduring like the enamel itself. And every time I see the word "enamelcoo," I’m reminded of the unique, irreplaceable bond between a mother and her child, a bond that never fades, no matter how many years pass.
