Ella wiped her brow and looked out over her small cottage. The summer was almost cleaned out, and her little cottage was ready for another winter.

The thick logs lay stacked to the ceiling on both sides of the hearth. The plush knitted quilt lay over her favorite armchair, along with the billowing pillows for her back.

Outside, she had scrubbed the little stone grill, placed the outdoor furniture into the shed, and tucked the most delicate flowers in the garden under a protective blanket.

She found the doddering teacup when she went up to the attic to stow away her summer wardrobe and dig out her warm woolen gear. It rested on a small plank just above the round window overlooking the backyard. She recognized the cup from an old dinner service they received from Hilbert’s mother as a wedding gift. A shallow sigh escaped her lips. It felt like an eon ago now. 

She picked it up. A patina of dried tea clung to the bottom. She wondered who had put it there. It could have been her, or Hilbert. She smiled. It was most certainly Hilbert. He loved having a cup of tea tagging along around the cottage. He must have left it there one day and simply forgotten about it. She took it down to the pantry, rinsed it, and then took it outside, filled with cinnamon tea.

In the garden, the enormous pile of leaves over the compost looked back at her. She felt good about that; it would provide her fine sowing soil for many springs to come. The tea warmed her throat and stilled her mind. A fleeting image emerged, snowballing into a full-blown memory that made her inhale.

Hilbert was there, his brown eyes gleamed with happiness. They were out in the woods, their wicker baskets swelling with lobster mushrooms and chanterelles. The image was so vivid. The humid scent of late fall lingered in the air while Hilbert’s booming laughter echoed through the trees. The cold seeped through her boots, because she didn’t want to wear those itchy socks.

She was at the center of the memory. Not Hilbert. Her eyes widened as she realized that the memory wasn’t hers, it was his. A memory that had meant something significant to him. And she was at the heart of it.

During the fall, whenever she missed Hilbert especially much, she brought out the teacup. It never failed to show her one of his happiest memories. Sometimes he was with his friends, sometimes with their children, and sometimes she was there. It didn’t matter. She treasured them all equally.

She never revealed the secret of the teacup to her children or friends when they came to visit. The experience was sacred, belonging only to her, Hilbert, and the cup.

It was late one February evening. Big, fluffy snowflakes drifted through the air outside. The fireplace was crackling. Ella was in her favorite armchair, her delicate fingers clutching the teacup. The steamy peppermint tea worked wonders on her stuffy nose. Soon, a memory slipped into her mind like a warm breeze.

For the first time, Hilbert wasn’t there. It was just her. Alone. She was squatting in the flowerbed, wearing those old, loose-fitting dungarees and a worn, smudgy shirt, with her slouch hat on top.

The sun was beating down, while the bees buzzed happily around the flowers. She was talking and laughing with her hardy geraniums as if they were old friends.

Ella’s hand trembled as she set the cup down. She laid her hands over her heart, bliss blooming in her chest. Her eyes watered as she realized the cup would hold her memories as well, long after she was gone. Maybe one rainy afternoon, her children or grandchildren would lift the cup to their lips and experience those same sweet moments.

That evening, she rinsed the cup thoroughly and dried it carefully with a tea towel.

“Thank you,” she whispered as she tucked it away in the cupboard.

Then she closed the door.