Cushions and Chamomile

The afternoon sun was soft, hittin’ the porch floor just right, makin’ the wood glow warm under my feet. I was loungin’ in the old rocking chair mama passed down to me, cushions worn in all the right places. My mug of chamomile tea steamed gently in my hands, smellin’ sweet and calm, like it knew the day needed a pause.

“Boy, you sittin’ out here lookin’ like a statue,” my cousin Deja said from the bench across the porch. She had her own mug of tea, steam curlin’ up like tiny clouds. “You gon’ let that chair hold you all day?”

I laughed, shiftin’ slow. “Nah, sis. This chair steady. Table holdin’ my tea steady. Porch steady. All I gotta do is sit and enjoy.”

Deja tilted her head, eyes soft. “Furniture got lessons now? You trippin’.”

“Maybe,” I said, stirrin’ the tea, watchin’ the steam rise. “Look at this bench. Cushions sagged, paint chipped, legs wobbly. Still holdin’ weight. Still steady. Ain’t tryin’ to rush nothin’.”

She smirked, sippin’ her tea. “You right. Ain’t nothin’ fancy ‘bout it, but it steady. Guess that’s somethin’ we all need sometimes.”

The coffee table between us was a map of old stories—scratches from cups, dents from dropped books, and faint rings from previous mugs. It had held homework, birthday cakes, late-night snacks, and now two mugs of tea. I ran my hand over the wood, feelin’ the history, and thought about how furniture silently watched it all, steady through everything.

“Remember last week?” I asked, grin tuggin’ at my lips. “We was out here ‘til the sun dipped, laughin’ over nothin’, chairs squeakin’, table holdin’ every mug and plate we piled on it.”

Deja laughed, noddin’. “Yeah. Even when you knocked your tea over and mama came runnin’. Table still didn’t quit on us.”

I took a long sip, let the warmth spread through my chest. Outside, the wind rustled the leaves, porch boards creaked, cushions groaned under us. Furniture, tea, and family—they were steady anchors, holdin’ us in a moment that felt bigger than any rush or worry.

“You ever notice,” I said soft, “how tea makes you slow down, and furniture makes you remember?”

Deja smiled. “Yeah. Simple things, steady things. That’s what home is.”

We stayed a long while, sippin’ tea, laughin’ at old stories, watchin’ shadows stretch across the porch. By the time the sun dipped behind the trees, mugs were empty, cushions warm, and the porch held us together just like it always had.

Furniture, tea, and family—steady, simple, and enough to make the world feel right for a little while.