Mug

I can handle that one day at Mum’s. Actually, I’m looking forward to it. It’s been a while since we last saw each other. When was that, anyway? Maybe around Christmas?

I’m cruising down the country road, carving through the curves to the beat of the music blasting through my headphones. This is awesome, anyway. The dogs are looking out the back window. They’re used to my driving style.

Yes, it really was around Christmas. It’s better now that we celebrate at Jirka’s. The guys always keep things fun. Christmas at my son’s place is a dream come true. I come to visit, everything’s tidy, the tree’s set up, and I just enjoy myself. Jirka and Máťa are always cracking jokes, and Tom grows into a Zen master.

I’m driving past the forest where we go on hikes and pick raspberries. Larches and deciduous trees, chatting in little clusters, a dirt path leading to the forest, where you can immerse yourself in peace and the world of elves. The sun is setting. Spring is just beautiful. That fresh green gets me every year. I can smell the forest all the way from here.

Ah, my song, Hilltop Hoods, turn up the volume.

I speed on and after a moment I see a tower in the distance. I remember when the boys were little. Right here we always used to call out: “Who sees the tower? We’re almost there!” Máťa used to get car sick right here and was about to throw up. I remember those trips in the winter. We’d drive with the heater on and the window rolled down, and I’d coax him, “Breathe, you can do it,” because I wanted to make it there without stopping. He’d then stumble out of the car and be completely wiped out right at the start of the visit.

I park. I look at the flowerpot by the door and the window boxes. Yellow and purple pansies, a ceramic bird, a small tree, and a cushion of daisies beneath it. Mum just has a knack for this. When I used to come home from trips, or just after a long time away, this is exactly what I looked forward to. All those little decorations, trinkets, antique and everyday items, arranged into little still lifes all over the apartment. I’m home. It always occurs to me. Even now.

“Hi!”

“Hi, Mum, we’re here!“

“Well, come on in! You haven’t been here in ages. I hardly recognise you any more.”

“I know. You know how it’s been with work and my illness. It just wasn’t possible. But now we’re here.“

„You have beautiful flowers, Mum. Let me see – I’m going to take a look at the garden.”

I let the dogs out. They both dash around like crazy. They run back and forth. They sniff and mark their territory. What a joy! They’re excited; a garden is a garden.

Mum’s garden is a little nook. Even though it’s tiny, it has lots of hidden corners. I see it as a map, a world where so much is happening. There’s a spot under the plum tree, a magical world behind a pile of brushwood, then a corner next to the compost where garden gangsters surely live. A mysterious, shady little terrace. A fragrant herb garden. Hide-and-seek behind the shed. And different colours every month. Today I discovered clumps of bluebells and snowdrops here. And then these little yellow flowers – I don’t know what they’re called. Well, I’m just a city girl, a flat dweller.

“Want some cake? I’ve also got soup and meat with potatoes. And a radish salad – all organic from Květa’s garden. It tastes fantastic - it’s so good!”

“Wow, finally some home-cooked food, Mum. You know how I am with cooking. It smells really good. Of course I’ll have some.”

“You went to a concert?” I’m looking at the flyer on the table while I eat.

“This past Thursday, in that old church. I went with the girls, Božena and Hanka. It was quite an experience. Classical music, viola and violin. And I’m off to an exhibition tomorrow.”

“And how’s work? What are your plans for next year? Will you still be teaching?”

“We’ll see, I’m still deciding. I really enjoy it. But you know, getting up early, commuting – it gets harder as you get older. It’s hard for me to get up in the morning. And then there’s the hour-long commute through Prague.”

“You’re still a champ, Mum. I´m struggling with it already.”

“I used to handle it quite well. And I’ve settled into a good groove with teaching. Now I know what to do and how to do it. Plus, I have materials from before. So I don’t want to give it up.”

“I feel like teaching really nourishes you; you’re really cut out for it.”

“Imagine, the students just came to me and said they want me to teach them next year too. They made me so happy!” Mum’s eyes are shining. I’m glad.

“That must be really nice.”

“I enjoy civics the most. There’s so much to say and do there!”

“Well, I’m curious to see what you decide in the end. I have a feeling you’ll go for it.”

“But I´m done with being a form tutor; that would be too much.”

“I understand.”

It’s easygoing. Mum and I are good at small talk. I watch for the moment when that strange tension creeps into the room. When things take a turn. It always happens. And I’ve actually never understood how. Why.

I look around the room. The boys’ toys are still in their place under the stairs, even though they outgrew them long ago. Cars, Duplo, and even wooden blocks. Now they’d probably be looking for a cold beer in the fridge. Dim lights, an antique carved door where the swing used to be. I remember. We used to sleep upstairs with the boys. Back then, during the summer holidays, I lived in Agatha Christie’s detective novels. I read in bed at night, got lost in the story, and then I was afraid to go down the stairs. It was such a real escape, with the books. I want to read more again.

“Mum, guess what, I’m changing jobs again. They cancelled our project.”

“Hmm, what a shame. You enjoyed it, didn’t you? Although you didn’t tell me much about it. I don’t even know what you actually do. I don’t know anything.”

That hit home. I think for a moment about how to respond. I’ve talked about work several times. I talk a lot. Too much. This situation confuses me.

Coffee! My solution to every crisis and bout of fatigue. I didn’t drink it at all for a few years. But then I gave in. I don’t drink alcohol and I don’t smoke, so I’m entitled to it. Everyone needs a little vice. And coffee is a good companion in tough times.

I open the kitchen cabinet and look at the mugs. There´s that feeling of home again. My mum’s mugs are artistic and unique. Each one has its own character. I choose based on my mood, shape, colour, and even material. I don’t really like stoneware. And round mugs just don’t suit me – I can’t say why.

“Mum, shall we have some coffee? Who gave you this cup?” I point to a delicate white porcelain cup with dainty flowers and a gold rim. Porcelain is such a refined material. This one is very thin in places; it plays with the light.

“Lída gave it to me.”

“Auntie? Nice. And what about this blue one?” I pick up a ceramic mug where various shades of blue blend together in delicate stripes. It has a calming effect. I try to guess who might have made it. I’m guessing a Czech potter.

“I got this from Maruška; she gave it to me for my birthday.”

“Mum, can I take this one? It suits me best.” My eye was caught by a ceramic mug without a handle in a minimalist, I’d say Japanese, style. A play of shades of grey-blue with a delicate natural stripe undulating along the rim. It speaks to me.

“My colleague Vítek brought that back for me from Tokyo.”

“Which one are you going to take?”

“I don’t care. Just give me whatever is left for me.”

I pick out a pink ceramic cup with a saucer for mum. I often see her drinking coffee from it.

“You have a great collection here. I can see they know you well – they really hit the mark with your taste, didn’t they?”

“No one really cares about me.”

“But come on…”

“I don’t understand.”

I look at the bottom of the mug from Tokyo. A few precious drops of coffee remain at the bottom. I won’t leave them there.

“Hmm. I have to go now, Mum. I don’t want to fall asleep on the way.”

I get into the car; the dogs are all settled in their crates, and My Supermix 2 is playing through my headphones.

That’s okay. I can’t change everything.

I shift into fifth gear and turn up the volume.