The chipped mug keeps getting refilled

I'm sitting at a long kitchen table with people I've lost — a few old patients, my mother, someone whose name I can't reach — and the chipped mug keeps getting refilled by hands I never see. Nobody's in a hurry to leave, and the light outside is that flat grey before a thunderstorm. I woke up before anyone said anything important, but the porch light was on in the window across the street, and that felt like an answer.