Grandma’s couch been sittin’ in that same spot since before I learned how to read. Brown floral print, one leg wobblin’, smell like old books and peppermint oil. Everybody know that couch. You don’t sit there unless you ready to hear somethin’.
I come in the house late afternoon, rain still tap-dancin’ on the windows. Grandma already at the little round table, pourin’ tea like she been waitin’ on me.
“Sit down,” she say, eyein’ the chair across from her. Not the couch. The chair.
I slide it back, wood scrape the floor. “You already know I don’t like that bitter tea.”
She smirk. “Then you better learn to like truth, ‘cause it taste about the same.”
Steam rise up between us. The table old, got burn marks from candles long gone. Every piece of furniture in that room been through somethin’. Just like us.
“So,” she say, stirrin’ slow, “you still runnin’ from folks who love you?”
I sigh, stare at the tea like it might answer for me. “I ain’t runnin’. I’m just… movin’.”
“Mmhmm.” She lean back, chair creak in agreement. “That couch right there? It don’t move. Still hold everybody who need rest.”
I take a sip. Still bitter. Still warm.
“Sometimes,” she say softer, “you gotta be furniture. Stay put. Let people come to you.”
I look at the couch, then back at my cup. Rain finally hush outside.
“Yeah,” I say. “I hear you.”
She nod like she knew I would.
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