Hello. Goodbye.

The first thing I heard was the rustle of paper. I didn’t stir; it wasn’t the first time a mouse or a cockroach had snooped among the crumpled newsprint. I simply yawned, wondering vaguely what the hour might be.

​Then, the world split open. A shaft of blinding light was followed by a rush of bone-deep cold air that smelled of eucalyptus disinfectant. Before I could find my bearings, I was yanked rudely by the arm and hoisted into the sky.

​"What on heaven’s earth is happening?" I shrieked. Fine spider silk twisted around my girth as an imbecile gripped me. I yelled directly into his face, "That’s not how you treat a lady!"

​He didn't flinch. He just watched me swing and dangle before catching me in his palm, squeezing as if he were computing tactile data. "What are they?" he asked. I tried to peer past him, but the world was a blur. I reached into my pocket—the fabric now felt like stiff, aged cardboard. Ugh. I pulled out the thin, scratchy metal frames of my spectacles. Hmm, might be time to order a new pair?

​"Are the cups durable?" my handler asked, oblivious to my protests.

​"Durable?" I retorted, frantically wiping my lenses. "I survived the War, you big oaf!"

​Looking past me, the seller merely shrugged. "Yeah, I think so. My Nana got them from the hospital where she worked. She used to tell us kids how they started throwing them out and said she could have as many as she wanted." Remembering her feistiness, he continued, "So Grandad came and they loaded them into the back seat of their Holden. She always boasted she got enough for herself and all her friends."

​Amused, the imbecile chipped in, "So they’re old? How old?"

​"From World War II," the seller replied, sensing growing interest. "You know, she swore by them. Said they were washed in big galvanized barrels—real tough." He tapped the carton with his foot and smiled at the bittersweet memory. "She said you could probably drop 'em off a truck and they’d bounce."

​By this time, I had finally managed to clean my lenses as best I could. Though smeared, they were good enough to see through. I looked at the seller, and when I saw his eyes, the breath left me. Those eyes... well, I’ll be blown. It couldn’t be? Oh, Mother Mary of God, it is! It’s Johnny!

​In disbelief, I pulled my glasses off and spat on them—it’s not ladylike, but sometimes it’s called for. I looked again with 100 percent visibility. Yes, those eyes.

​"My, my, Johnny... it’s you!" With outstretched arms, I begged for a hug. He was all grown up. Late thirties, a once-blonde, now mousy, receding hairline, a bit of a belly, and a tanned hand with a wedding ring. I inspected the white skin showing under the gold band; yes indeed, our grandson was a good boy!

​Then I felt dizzy as the realization hit me like a physical blow: we had all been asleep for thirty years.

​Johnny cleared his throat and continued, "She’s passed now, been gone a few years. We’re emptying the garage so Mum and Dad can sell the place. So busy, you know? Work, kids. Just want the lot gone."

​I felt faint as the "bozo" twirled me in the air. I exclaimed that I needed a seat, but without ceremony, Johnny unconsciously caught me and plonked me back into the carton.

​Oh, heavens above. "Wake up, girls!" I blubbered. Poor Dorothy is dead. I loved that woman; she was a tireless soul who never once put her feet up. The mornings, the nights... so many memories shared over good food. I blew my nose, choked with a mix of dust and the sudden, sharp grief of her loss. She’s gone; what will become of us?

​"How much for the box?" a second man asked impatiently.

​His eyes slid over us. Cranky and disheveled, I interrupted, "Yeah? Are you another one going to manhandle us? You big bogey, I bet you know we’re worth something by now! There would be fewer of us 'utility girls' around these days, wouldn't there? Don't let him take us, Johnny! He's going to do you over, son!"

​Johnny paused as if my words had finally reached his ears. He straightened up. "There’s a variation of colors—blue, yellow, and green ones in there, both cups and matching saucers. Perfect sets," he said, sensing a bidding war. "You know, I’d let them all go for twenty dollars."

​"Done," the first man—the imbecile—said, reaching for his wallet.

​"I'll give you twenty-five," the second interrupted, reaching for our box.

​"Yeah, nah," the first man snapped, his grip tightening. He fumbled for a credit card. "Thirty."

​Done.

​I breathed a sigh of relief. Suddenly, we were exactly what we were meant to be: a prize. I sort of liked him now, our new owner. He carried us with his head high and a new kind of care—respect, if you must. I sobbed loudly as I waved my final goodbye to Johnny, knowing deep down it was the last time I would ever lay eyes on any member of our beloved Smythe family.

***

​Now, my sisters and I sit side-by-side in the warm, sterile glow of a modern coffee house. We are perched atop a fancy, steaming device they call a coffee machine. We’ve all had to adjust. Yes, our hospital years were isolating and clinical; our home life with the Smythes was quieter, more intimate, and endearing. Now, in this busy cafe, we simply joke to keep our spirits up: “At least there are no bombs dropping today, girls!”

​I have always used the word “we.” You see, back in the day, the brand Wood’s Ware produced utility teacups and saucers. We were hardy and saved valuable production time—everything was about preserving resources during the War.

​I am Jasmine, the happy pink one—the fourth and rarest color produced. My eldest sister, Beryl, is sea-foam green and was always the most popular. Then there are the “middle kids”: soft Iris in blue and Heather, pretty in yellow. There are other cups and saucers here just like us, but we don't associate with them.

​We know how that lot gossips. It’s always, “The customers did this,” or, “That one is going through a messy divorce!” They’ll tattle about anything: “That woman dropped her false eyelashes right into me during a job interview!” or, “That one’s dress is so low I can see clear down to her belly button!” They even whisper, “I bet that customer is having an affair with the waitress!”

​Honestly, some cups simply have no class.

​I don't think I've mentioned how much we adore our new owner, Rob. Yes, that’s his name—Rob! He’s quite observant, you see. One day, he actually picked up on the chatter—the gossip, I mean—and decided to turn the dishwasher temperature up a notch. If you catch my drift? The girls and I smirked, watching him "scold" the lot of them with that extra-hot water!