Cushions and Conversation

I sank into the overstuffed armchair by the window, the cushions soft like they knew all my secrets. In my hand, a mug of hot tea steamed, cinnamon swirl mixin’ with the smell of old wood from the coffee table in front of me. That table had scratches, nicks, and a little burn mark from when mama left her candle too close. Still, it held the tea steady, like it was proud to do somethin’ right after all these years.

“Don’t slouch so much, little man,” my auntie said from the couch across the room. She was foldin’ a blanket, hummin’ under her breath. “Furniture don’t mind your weight, but I mind your posture.”

I chuckled, liftin’ my mug. “I’m fine. This tea keepin’ me upright enough.”

She shook her head, laughin’. “Tea can’t fix everything. You need balance, boy. Just like this chair here—old, comfy, but steady. You learn from that. Life steady, too, if you let it.”

Outside, the wind moved through the trees, rustlin’ leaves against the porch. I took a slow sip, feelin’ warmth travel down my throat, and for a second, the room felt bigger than it was. Chairs, sofas, tables—they weren’t just furniture. They were witnesses. They held stories, laughs, arguments, and quiet Sundays like this one.

“See?” my auntie said, eyein’ me. “Even the tea know when to be sweet.”

I grinned, leanin’ back. Cushions under me, tea in my hand, the room quiet but alive. Sometimes, that’s all you need to feel at home.