The Green Cup

I keep thinking about how you never really know something will become a special thing, until it is that special thing.

This green cup — it was just a cup before. Nothing fancy. Just something I’d fill with coffee and take with me to my night shifts.  

But, Dr. Zahiri gave me this cup, and since his passing last week its now a "special" cup.

I remember admiring it one day, a few years ago— it was sitting on the counter, and I said how nice it looked. He grinned and said, “Yeah, and it’ll keep your beer cold too”. Then he scurried off to his office and came back with this little black puck that fits in the bottom — if you know a BrüMate, you know what I’m talking about. You stick it in the freezer, and it keeps your drink cold for hours. He was so excited to show me how it worked. And then, of course, he insisted I take the cup — no matter how much I told him he didn’t have to. That was just who he was.

He told me he had a bunch of them. Which if you knew him, came as now surprise. Because when he found something he liked, he’d buy multiples so he’d never run out. I chuckle to think of the number of pairs of black pants with all the pockets he must of had. And I sometimes wonder if maybe he bought extras (maybe not the pants lol) so he could give them away. Maybe there are a whole bunch of Dr. Z cups out there, quietly keeping people’s drinks cold or hot, carrying little pieces of him around the world. I kind of hope so.

Now that he’s gone, this cup has changed. It’s no longer just an object — it’s a reminder. A symbol. A small, ordinary piece of something extraordinary.

And the thing is, I wish I’d told him what he meant to me. As I sip from this now special cup, I wish I’d said how much his kindness and care changed my life. Because it did — he was one of the people who set off a whole cascade of events that led me to becoming sober. And I never got to tell him that. You always think you’ll have more time.

Isn’t that how life works, though? You never really know when a “thing” becomes the thing. The sweater that smells like someone you love. The chipped mug from a morning that changed everything. The song that starts meaning something new after a loss.

Before that moment, it was ordinary. After — it’s sacred.

And it makes me wonder… should we treat everything like it’s already special? Or would that take away from the magic that happens when something becomes special?

Life is so full of these quiet, perplexing turns. Little reminders that meaning doesn’t come from the object itself — it’s built slowly, through love, memory, and the people who leave traces of themselves behind.

So maybe this cup isn’t just a cup anymore. Maybe it’s a gentle reminder to notice. To hold the moments — and the people — a little closer while we can. And maybe in a way, he still comes along with me for every shift.

So today, for my dear friend Dr. Z

Tell the people who’ve made you feel special that they did.

Thank the ones who’ve listened, supported, or believed in you when you needed it most.

Compliment people. Tell them what you see in them. Don’t just assume they know — because they might not.

I think we would all benefit from saying "it" out loud more.

I Love ya, Stay Sweet

---

For Dr. Z — thank you for noticing me.
Thank you for listening to me.
Thank you for fighting for me — for my rights, for what I wanted.
Because the care you gave to me, and to everyone you met, came straight from your heart. You gave all of your love away, every ounce of it, right up until the end. And I am so tremendously thankful for that.

So, I’ll keep trying to sprinkle love on people the way you did. I’ll try to carry you along with me. And every time I do something you’d call crazy — like jump out of a plane — I’ll picture that look you gave me, shake your head, and hear you saying, “Crazy girl.” You’ll forever be in my heart, and I’ll forever be grateful for what you did for me.