This is the ritual each time I visit my father’s thinning hands inscribe the air in an economic collation of tools: flame pot spoon powder milk and mug. A lifetime efficiency of sympathetic magic. I sit in a silent halo under the kitchen light, watching while my father speaks words. The spoon dips, lifts, sifts and stirs, stainless steel maintained for years, glints and light clinks, milk and powder measured in a perfected practice but that mug was blue when I gave it to him as a child, it has chipped, clipped, smashed and shattered — the ceramic a speckled white from his meticulous repair. I have given him new ones and they sit in unopened boxes because he says “they are too nice to use.” and smiles to himself. I ask him about that and he just says “your great-grandma used to say the same thing.“ My father gives me the broken cup. It does not leak but it is not easy to drink from.