I don't drink tea, but I love the cups. Especially the very tiny ones, better at holding the flowers I snipped too close than any reasonable amount of tea. They couldn't have held more than three or four sips. I can't guess who could have been satisfied by four sips, even in daintier times. (My coffee mugs are the size of oil barrels).
I like how they must have witnessed hours of gossip, or watched family dramas from their shelves in glass-front cabinets. And then there are all the mysterious reasons they wound up alone, lined up and toe-tagged on folding tables in flea markets. Did the others break, one by one, year by year, in wet sinks, on kitchen floors, as the exclamation point at the end of fights? Did the daughters deal out all of Mom's things like playing cards? Did they end up in a cardboard box somewhere, the cumulative effect of numerous flustered sons emptying out their parents' houses?