THE HEAVY ARTISANAL

THE HEAVY ARTISANAL MUG: FILLED WITH FAKE PROMISES AND DISAPPOINTMENTS

Judith Campos

It was a day during Holy Week, one of the most celebrated weeks in Hispanic and Latin American countries. The sky in San Gabriel had whirls of pinks, mixed with purples, making the yellow radiance from the sun stand out. If the world was ending, the sight of the sky would make it peaceful. The lectures of the priest and the responses of prayers from the church crowd was inevitable to hear, yet it did not take away the noise from the artisanal marketers. You could find close to any product – piggy banks, unicorns with sparkly horns in any shade you could imagine, three-feet high “El Chavo” cartoon characters, red, green and purple dinosaurs, all with slits large enough for your money; pots with heart shaped stands; mini, small, medium and large clay pitchers; bowls for posole and menudo and plates all made by hand and sold on the plaza outside of the church. The amused girl savored the scene of colors, wishing to buy everything, but she realized she neither had the money or space. She strolled beside Abraham who was a whole head taller than she was and much skinnier. Sometimes, she would look up at Abraham hoping to see him as amused as herself, but his slight frown always made him look bored. His lack of amusement had the ability to make you feel guilty. She ignored his indifference thinking maybe he was tired or had gotten up on the wrong side of the bed and continued enjoying the scene. It is tradition to buy loved ones ceramic pieces so, as they turned the corner searching for a gift, he saw them. The round, six-inch wide by four-inch high mugs. She observed the smooth crimson-colored mug that could pass as a cereal bowl with a handle. Realistically, they all could pass as cereal bowls. The mugs were like the ones held gloriously by Instagram influencers or pinned on snazzy Pinterest boards. They would be perfect mugs for rich, Swiss Miss hot chocolate and mini floating marshmallows in January and on days when you contemplate the pleasurable furnace heat. The unique cereal mugs shined of glossy colors — crimson, black, green and blue. The smoothness of the mugs was soothing, like brand new bowls from Target that you would not likely buy, but the smooth and delicate ceramic made them feel special. The artisanal mug was somewhat heavy, and holding it from the handle felt like a risk. The couple was shocked and surprised by the size and the price, yet they still purchased them. She chose the crimson-colored mug, the color of her wine-colored Honda Accord, the same color her mom had always

been fond of. If wine was to be poured in the mug, it would blend in. When the mug was turned upside down, the white ridge of the base was visible. The bottom circular ridge of the mug felt like dry rough edges of a clay pot made by a kindergartener who purposely missed a spot to glaze. If the mug were broken, the colors of the particles would be dried blood with white bone, it was perfect. The couple had always wanted to “twin,” and not be cringy, so he chose the blue mug that reminded both of them of Pocoyo’s hat. The thought of them walking home once again with mugs full of fresh milk and newly bought Corn Puffs elated her soul. She remembered how he had told her before, with a smile, that he had never eaten cereal while walking a girlfriend home. Would they be bonded by a couple of mugs? What about the checkered Vans they both wanted? Was he feeling the same happiness she did when holding the mug? Had the spark between them been lit again? They could have chosen any mug, but the abnormal size of the mug fulfilled their desires of ownership. As she and Abraham arrived at his house, the bitter aroma of coffee filled the air. His mom was standing by the counter astonished by the size of the mugs. Whenever the girl was alone with Abraham, she was affectionate, but he would attempt to distance himself. She would try to share happenings with him, but he would be oblivious, floating in his thoughts. Maybe one day they will click as they did before. Abraham would seldom share his feelings, the girl would have to guess the reason of his frustrations. Most of the time, Abraham’s frustrations were due to his lack of confidence, his thought of her cheating, playing with his feelings would conquer his emotions. Unknowingly, they were both deeply unhappy. At least if the relationship ended, the euphoria from smashing the mug would be immense. Not even ripping or tearing a couple of shoes could compare to breaking a fragile mug. Day by day the girl looked at the mug and its shiny paint. She did not only love the size, she also loved the simplicity of the mug and the fact that he gave it to her. She cherished how she and Abraham owned similar mugs; in her mind it was a simple way to say I love you. She saw the mug as a pledge to keep trying and give full effort into the dying relationship. When leaving the house, she would glimpse at the empty mug’s shine, but the girl would return to her grandparent’s house, disheartened, gazing confusedly at the mug. How could she let an object symbolize the love he had for her? This was the first, only, and the last gift he would ever give her. Her new favorite cereal bowl, filled with fake promises and disappointments, made her realize that it was time to let go

of Abraham. When she went back home to the United States, the mug went too. Holding the delicate ceramic six-feet above the ground, she thought about smashing it and watching all the little pieces become useless, but she could not break it. The mug held memories and strong emotions, so there was no need for it to hold Corn Puffs, too. Judith Campos