Ode to a Travel Mug

It doesn’t seem like much, not anymore.

My travel mug sits on my desk, battered and bruised with use. It is silver and black, with a faux-leather sleeve, a mug-type handle, and signs of obvious abuse.

It is dented, the rim is scored from a daring leap from my bicycle basket, no parachute. Poor mug. It hit the ground hard and bears the marks to this day.

The handle is worn, the silver colour gone, the bottom dented from one too many falls. It is, however, still leak proof, which is important when you are cramming it in your bag with all your books.

I forgot it occasionally in a classroom, or under a bench in the quad, only to go back to find it patiently waiting for me.

I am attached to it.

It is not the mug itself, but what it has come to represent. It was given to me by some close friends near the beginning of my academic journey. It has been to every class with me, and nearly everywhere else too.

It comes to soccer games, on dog walking excursions, and to early morning skating practices. It has been stalwart in its service, uncomplaining of the demands of life.

It is just a mug to the naked eye, but to me, it represents achievement. I have just finished my degree, which has changed me over time, just has time has changed my mug.

My education has shown me that there is always more to learn, that the mind can stretch to new heights, and take on new things. The mug, my constant companion, has always been capable of being refilled, a vessel to be replenished, just as the mind is replenished by knowledge.

It has followed my journey thus far, and as I make my applications for Master’s studies, it will continue to follow me, to remind me of the friends who have supported me, and to to remind me that there is always room for more education.

My cup runneth over, to quote an over used cliché!, and my mug will always have room for more.