My family has a distinct grip on life, oddly portrayed through their grip on a drink. Dad refuses to stray from his beliefs, denies using a straw in any setting. The skinny “sissy sticks” routinely lie next to his drink on the table with driblets of beads of the liquid it was submerged in. Bear fists that grab the glass as he tips it in his mouth. Max swings from an aged experienced mug with wisdom that walks through his body when his mouth hovers the lip of the mug, enjoyment enclosed in each sip. Steam emerges like a ghost from a simmering pot of deep brown. Nate’s hands form around a cup possessing ice that knocks into the side of his glass like shingles of a chandelier during an earthquake. Condensation that rests in the curve of his hand, his thumb smeared with whatever he messily ate before picking up the cup.

As for me, my cup hosts an unreasonable ice to drink ratio. My iron deficiency telling me to munch on the remainders of ice. I keep my pinky up by nature; however, it ironically reminds me just how unproper I am. We don’t spend much time on these small details, but somehow every one of them shapes us into the person we are.