Little Brown Mug … Rebekah Pulaski

by Rebekah Pulaski If one was to inspect every corner of the one-bedroom dorm I live in, they would find, under the sink, a small brown mug. This mug would look to be of little significance. It may even hold a few utensils, for there is not much room under the sink of a one-bedroom dorm. However, this mug is the source of much guilt, and I find it to be one of my deepest regrets… because this mug is the one and only thing that I have stolen. There is no good way to put it. I stole. And as the daughter of a pastor, and someone who has held an identity as being the “good kid” all my life, I can’t exactly let that go. I have confessed to God, the universe, and my little sister, but the mug remains. Reminding me of the awful sin I have committed: stealing a used mug from a diner where I paid twice of what the mug was probably worth for the meal I ate. But the absurdity of the price of waffles is no excuse. I shouldn’t have done it, even though it was so fun; I could hardly stop laughing a full five minutes after the deed. Even though I now hold an unbreakable bond with the girl who stole with me. Even though I loved the mug. I shouldn’t have stolen the thing I loved, because now comes the real problem with the stolen mug. If I am someone who steals a mug from a diner purely because the mug was beautiful, who does that make me? Now I am someone who has stolen. I am a stealer. But up until that fateful day, I wasn’t a stealer. I hadn’t even stolen a boy from someone, let alone a beautiful brown mug. I didn’t break rules. I wouldn’t even cheat on tests when some of my best friends asked me to. Because that wasn’t who I was. So, did I change at some point? Am I

Creative Pieces… 83 now someone who steals? Am I a bad person? I really don’t know.

Could somebody tell me? Has the little brown mug damned me? Is there no turning back from the life of sin? I do not feel forgiveness. I lie awake at night thinking of how I wish I could take the mug back, find the waitress who served me my overpriced waffles, and tell her how sorry I am. That I am not a stealer, and I will never steal again, so long as I live. But the little brown mug remains. Taunting me with its beauty, teasing me with my secret. Because the little brown mug knows what I have done. It knows.