That ottoman stayed scarred up like it seen war. Folks prop they legs on it, spill tea on it, use it like it ain’t got no feelings. But let that thing be gone one day—whole room off balance.
I step inside and kick my shoes off by the loveseat. Grandma in the kitchen clinkin’ cups, talkin’ to herself like the house need instructions.
“Don’t touch that yet,” she yell. “Tea too hot.”
I nod like she can see me.
I sit on the edge of the couch, hands folded. Ottoman right there, patched in two spots, still doin’ its job. Low table beside it got them old coasters nobody use.
Grandma come through, hand me a mug. “Put your feet up,” she say.
“On the ottoman?”
“That what it here for.”
I do. Leather warm, soft but steady. Tea strong, not sweet, slide down slow.
“People be forgettin’ parts that don’t speak,” she say, noddin’ at the ottoman. “Still hold ‘em up though.”
I flex my toes, feel grounded.
“Guess we alike,” I say.
Grandma smile like she been knew.
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