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Simple
It would always be lying there, nestled between the street and the curb like a sleeping child. Whenever I would leave in the morning to go to class or to run an errand or to take someone somewhere the passing thought to pick it up always flitted across my conscience before the thought was replaced by something more important, like where my keys were or what time it was or Did I miss the train? The same ritual was repeated when I returned, alone or with another, but I never picked it up. Someone would, eventually, or I would, eventually, or it would be ran over by a car or washed down the street. Or it would just stay there, fading and cracking till it was gone.

It was lying in the street, nestled between the curb and the street bricks like a drunken bum on a rubbing alcohol binge, when my parents fought that night. And then it laid there while he held me and told me I was strong, both of us scared to raise our voices above a whisper. It survived thunderstorms and droughts, drunk drivers and careless feet, the trash man and Mark's endless cleaning. Who would have thought that such a simple thing as a blue plastic cup could survive more than your average human?

Joe brought it inside one night. He thought it fell from his van and had been lying in the street for weeks, though no one really knows where the cup came from or whose it was. Mark saw it on the coffee table, and his first thought words were "That is covered in germs."

All of us, my father, Joe and I, were thrown by this statement. Of course it was covered in bacteria, it had been lying in the street for weeks on end. How could it not be?

"I used it to cover a dead bird the other day," he said quietly, his large eyes wide with apprehension as we all stared at him. But somehow, that made more sense that Joe carrying the cup inside. This simple blue cup, white letters curving around its side like curled fingers, was the tomb of an infant bird that fell from the nest and was dashed against the concrete. It had seen the conception, the birth, the life, and then the death of this small creature silently. And in the end, the cup was used as a monument to life.

The next morning, I was acutely aware of the lack of the cup, nestled between the street and the curb like an afterthought. Its absence made me uneasy, like we had robbed a grave. My thoughts were a mess, running like quicksilver through my mind as I tried in vain to listen to conversations. All I could think of was the tiny cadaver of the bird, exposed to the world in its nakedness. I rushed home with my plan rising from my sub-conscious fully formed. I took the simple, blue cup and placed it back over the corpse of the bird. My father understood without saying a word. I don't know if Mark noticed.