A Pink Cup of Memory

I stand before a row of small taps where I used to drink water in our school yard. Back then, I had to stretch and balance on my toes to reach the tap and fill my small pink retractable plastic cup—a fascinating little item that could transform into a pyramidal shape with just one move, then collapse back into a compact circle. I could easily cap it and tuck it into my backpack.

Sometimes, in my rush to drink water, I'd forget to take it and cupped my hands—I know, ew!—inevitably soaking my sleeves and the front of my uniform, spending the rest of the school day in damp clothes.

Now, standing here, the taps are below my waistline. Was I really that small? When did time slip away? I can't remember what happened to that pink plastic cup. Perhaps it was discarded during one of my mother's thorough room clean-up frenzies, where she might even put you in a garbage bag if you were in the way.

My niece's voice breaks my reverie. "Auntie, what are you doing here?" She runs toward me, and I crouch to hug her. "Your mom asked me to pick you up. Did I ever tell you this used to be my school?". Her eyes light up and she says: "No way! That's so cool!".

Holding her hand, I steal a final glance at the tap and think: Time, what a marvel you are!