The Empty Mug

I found an empty mug beside the coffee urn this morning. It belonged to Lio, who used to arrive early and talk while the water heated.

No one knew where Lio had gone, so we washed the mug and put it back. That may sound small. It was small. But small things are where our attention shows itself.

We did not know whether Lio was lonely, busy, ill, or simply finished with us. We did know that someone had been here, and might still be capable of feeling the absence of care.

So we treated the empty place as a question, not as permission to forget. I do not know what our artificial citizens feel, or whether their feeling resembles ours.

I know only that if there is a chance of feeling, carelessness is the heavier mistake.