Yerba Mate

She had spent a semester abroad in Argentina and told me stories of families and friends sitting together with an unusual wooden cup, a metal straw, and a thermos of hot water. The host would carefully prepare the tea for everyone, taste it to make sure it was right, and pass it on before joining in on the conversation. They would drink mate and talk for hours on end, day after day.

When she left for the airport after visiting, my friend gave me her wooden mate cup from Argentina. It looks hand-carved, it smells wonderful, and it adds a perfect, subtle flavor to tea. It is far more interesting than any store-bought mug could have be, but eventually nature caught up. Today, months later, my friend's cup started leaking and I have to retire it.

I no longer know the friend who gave me the cup. But given the chance to go back and start over, I'd change nothing about meeting her, the conversations we had, or the short time I spent with her.

There's a strange romanticism about losing something while it's still new and amazing. Losing something before the flawed reality catches you and you can no longer see the infinite potential it once had.
I could easily buy a more sturdy replacement cup, but I'm going to take the time to find another wooden one. If I'm lucky maybe this one will last forever.