Mugs and Memories

I was loungin’ on the saggy couch in the living room, the cushions sinkin’ just right, a mug of tea warm in my hands. That couch had seen better days—arms frayed, springs pokin’ out in spots—but it held me steady like it always did.

“Boy, slow down with that tea,” my grandma said from the recliner across the room. She had her knitting in her lap, needles clickin’ rhythmically. “Don’t be spillin’ that on the carpet now. That carpet ain’t gonna forgive you.”

I chuckled, blowin’ on the tea. “Ain’t nobody spillin’ nothin’, Grandma. I got this.”

She smirked, tappin’ her needles. “You talk too much when you sip. Tea supposed to calm you, not make you gab.”

Outside, sunlight slanted through the blinds, hittin’ the coffee table that had a chip in the corner from when my little cousin tripped over it last summer. I ran my fingers over the scratch, thinkin’ how that table had seen every birthday cake, every late-night homework session, and every quiet Sunday morning. Furniture like that? It carried history, even if it couldn’t talk.

I lifted my mug and sipped slow. Tea warm, grandma busy, couch cradlin’ me just right. For a moment, everything was simple, steady, and good. Mugs, memories, and furniture—it all held me together better than any words could.