Why is it that grandmas always find the ugliest clothes to wear?

On our date I wore a cheesy sweatshirt filled with floral embroidered graphics and kind words like “sweet” and “precious”.

My tank top had gotten soaked after an incident involving the unfortunate timing of my grandma’s backyard sprinkler.

“You know you never actually told me where we’re going.” I told her in the passenger seat of her Volkswagen bug.

She smiles. “A special place.”

“Not bingo night at the rec center. Please no.”

“That’s tomorrow.” She giggles.

We pull up to a brick building downtown that almost looks abandoned if it weren’t for a neon “open” sign beaming from a dark window. I can’t help but feel awkward when I step out of the car. As if someone is watching me, and I forget how I usually walk or what expression my countenance should display.

But the feeling comes to an abrupt end when my grandma holds open the rickety door for me to walk through, and I’m met with the immense beauty of shelves over-stocked with glasses, candles, jewelry, and china. Piles of antiques stacked haphazardly. Chains of pearls and beads draping from the towers like a pirate’s treasure hoard.

The woman behind the counter gasps when she realizes we’ve walked into her antique shop.

“Oh, great heavens!” She presses her hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry. We never have customers at this time of the year.”

“July?” I ask.

She chuckles. “Yes ma’am. Summer is dead for us. No one wants to explore the items of the deceased when county fairs are up and pools are open.”

My grandma leans on the glass counter displaying rings underneath, and engages in a dull conversation about the unpredictable weather. Meanwhile, a shining blue object catches my eye.

What I pick up is a ceramic mug. Poorly glazed with a thick coat of cyan. The mug is chipped and lopsided like it was made by a child. I inspect it. Turning it, caressing it, pinching it, as if it’s dysfunctional form has a message for me and I need to listen to it.

I shut my eyes and feel down to the rough bottom where I feel words carved.

“3/14/1912

From: Eileen

To: Papa”

My attention is divided when suddenly my grandma’s hand rests on my shoulder.

“Almost ready to go?”

“Huh? Oh… yeah. No wait, we’ve only been here a couple minutes?”

“I know. I just came to catch up with a friend.” She gestures to the cashier. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

“Umm, a mug? I like it.”

Her eyebrows knit as she notices its awkward shape. “It’s… very unique.”

“Yeah. Can I get it? It’s only a couple bucks.”

“If it makes you happy.” She shrugs.

I nod fervently.

I keep it in my lap on the long ride home. Admiring it still as if I had just seen it for the first time.

I wonder if it ever held coffee or tea. Or how many times it was shown off to family members. If Eileen ever continued with pottery. If Eileen could still be alive. If she is, does she remember it?

This mug is not meant to sit with the perfect ones in the kitchen cabinet, nor to be used as pen cup on my dusty desk. Upon arriving back home, I promptly made space for it on a shelf by my bed where I kept every other pretty thing.

Even if it wasn’t as special as my silver and my gold, my awards or my baby teeth, it was special to Eileen. It was special to her father.