Evening on the Porch

The sun was settin’ low, hittin’ the porch just right, makin’ the old wooden floorboards glow like gold. I was sittin’ in my mama’s rocking chair, the one she always said had “seen more than any of y’all will in your lifetime,” sippin’ on a mug of sweet tea. Steam curled up slow, mixin’ with the warm air, and I leaned back, lettin’ the creak of the chair settle me.

“Boy, you sittin’ out here like you done forgotten we got a whole kitchen inside,” my sister Tia called from the doorway, mug in hand. She plopped down on the bench beside me, cushions flattened from years of sittin’. “You gon’ spill that tea or just stare at it all evening?”

I chuckled, blowin’ softly on the surface. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with watchin’, sis. Chairs, tables, tea—they teach if you pay attention.”

Tia raised an eyebrow. “Furniture teachin’ life lessons now? You trippin’.”

“Maybe I am,” I said, swirling the tea. “Look at this chair. Been through storms, heat, kids runnin’ over it, pets scratchin’ it. Still steady. Still hold me.”

She leaned back, considerin’ it. “True. Ain’t fancy, but it steady.”

The little coffee table in front of us had scratches deep enough to tell stories—burn marks from forgotten candles, dents from dropped cups, rings from mugs left too long. That table had held birthday cakes, homework, late-night talks, and now, two mugs of tea. I ran my hand over the rough wood and felt the memories in the grain, like the furniture was whisperin’ all the things it had witnessed.

“You remember last summer?” I asked, grinnin’. “We was out here ‘til dark, watchin’ fireflies. Table got sticky from lemonade, chairs soaked from rain, and you fell off the porch chasin’ a frog.”

Tia laughed, noddin’. “Yeah, and that table didn’t quit on us. That’s some loyalty right there.”

I took a long sip, the warmth travelin’ down slow, and watched the sunlight slant through the trees. The cushions cradled us, the tea steamed in our hands, and the porch seemed to breathe along with us.

“You ever think ‘bout how furniture hold memories like people do?” I asked quiet-like.

“Sometimes,” she said, eyes soft. “All these scratches, dents, even broken legs—they ain’t just damage. They tell stories. Life stories.”

I nodded, rockin’ slow, feelin’ the chair hum under me. “Yeah. Like this porch. The chairs, the table, the cushions… all witnesses. Tea just makes the moment sweeter.”

The wind moved through the leaves, the shadows stretched longer, and for a little while, nothing else mattered. Just us, the furniture, the tea, and the slow, steady rhythm of a day bein’ lived right.

By the time the sun disappeared, the mugs were empty, the chairs were warm, and the table glistened faintly in the moonlight. Tia leaned her head on my shoulder.

“See,” I said, quiet, “furniture and tea—they steady your mind better than anything else.”

She smiled. “Yeah… and us bein’ here. That counts too.”

We stayed a little longer, sippin’ the last drops from our mugs, porch creakin’, wind whisperin’, and furniture holdin’ us up like always.