Nothing Moved but the Curtains

It was one of them afternoons where the house feel full even though ain’t nobody really talkin’. Sun hangin’ low, light slidin’ in sideways, hittin’ the bookshelf first, then the arm of the couch, then the floor like it takin’ its time seein’ everything.

I was at the small kitchen table, the one with the uneven legs. You gotta slide a folded napkin under one side or it wobble like it got nerves. Mama say that table got anxiety. I say it just honest. It don’t pretend to be more stable than it is.

Kettle clicked off by itself. I ain’t jump. That sound known. I pour the water slow over the tea bag, watch it bloom dark in the mug like thoughts finally showin’ up when you sit still long enough.

Chair under me groan when I lean back. Not complainin’. Just acknowledgin’. Chair say, yeah, you here.

Living room quiet except for the curtains breathin’. Couch there like a wide promise. Coffee table still got a ring from last week, nobody bothered wipin’ it. End table holdin’ a lamp, one bulb flickerin’ like it thinkin’ too hard.

Mama move through the house barefoot. You can tell who home by how the floor answer ‘em. Floor got different voices for different people.

“You plannin’ to stay today?” she ask, passin’ through the doorway.

I stare into the mug. Steam fog my glasses. “Yeah,” I say. “I ain’t got it in me to run.”

She nod. “Good.”

No advice. No follow-up. Just good.

I take my tea to the couch, set it down careful. Sit right in the middle where the cushion dip deepest. That spot molded by years of folks needin’ somewhere to land. Couch take my weight without drama. Like it been waitin’.

I think about all the times I sat here restless—foot bouncin’, mind loud, tea cold ‘cause I ain’t never stopped long enough to drink it. Furniture still did its job anyway.

Curtains lift when the breeze come through, then fall back into place. That’s the only thing movin’ now.

I sip. Tea warm, steady, patient. Same way this house always been. Same way the furniture taught me to be if I let it.

For a long minute, I don’t feel like fixin’ nothin’.
Don’t feel like explainin’ nothin’.

I just sit.

And the note When the house is quiet enough, you realize—
sometimes the stillness ain’t empty.

Sometimes it finally holdin’ you.