When we moved into my Mom’s house my favorite glass mug got packed. It doesn’t match any other cup or dish I own; I think it might have been my grandmother’s. I like it because it’s exactly the right shape and weight in my hand, and holds the perfect amount of milk to go with waffles. At any rate, I’ve been without it for a year and a half.
Meanwhile, at the time of the move I had one of those tall plastic cups with the hard plastic straw. It came with me because I was at that very thirsty point of pregnancy, every point, and it was attached. It was there cutting a tall clear figure, practical yet chic.
Then it broke while I was on a three-week road trip. And Momma was thirsty.
There were two or three days of trying to suck enough water out of drinking fountains and refilling plastic bottles in gas station bathrooms before I got fed up. The inner estuaries of my growing abdomen demanded floods, not these piddly rains! I asked a friend on my trip if she had an old extra bottle maybe?
She did and for the next, well, year I drank out of an old scratched wide-mouthed Nalgene bottle that looked eminently functional and tired. As I was very pregnant and uncomfortable I couldn’t help but see the resemblance. The reflection wasn’t a pleasant one. But it was an accurate one, even the wide-mouthed bit.
And then today I abruptly noticed I wasn’t drinking out of the Nalgene anymore. I looked around for it. Could it be? Yes! It was still sitting next to my bed where I had left it two days ago. And what was I doing? Drinking little sips from my favorite glass mug.
I’m no longer a camel carrying water around on his back in quantity sufficient to make it to the next oasis. I am here. No nomad, I! And my oasis before me allows small glass mugs and the reliability of tiny sips.
So, fare thee well, my Nalgene. I send thee on with the help of the great karabiner in the sky where you shall lie in peace, forever resting in the shadow of the eternal Jansport. Amen.