Porch Cushions & Sweet Tea

I was sittin’ out on the porch, my back against the old wicker chair mama used to rock in. That chair’s paint chipped, some of the weave loose, but it held me up steady, like it knew me better than anyone. My mug of sweet tea steamed in my hands, the cinnamon smell floatin’ up slow.

“Boy, you sittin’ there like you waitin’ for somethin’ to happen,” my cousin Reggie said, leanin’ on the railing. He had his own mug, steam curling from the top, and a smirk on his face. “Life ain’t gon’ wait on you.”

I laughed, stirrin’ my tea. “I ain’t waitin’. Just enjoyin’ it. This porch, this chair, this tea—sometimes, that’s enough.”

He shook his head, but he stayed. The sun dipped low, hittin’ the porch floor, dancin’ across the cushions that had flattened from years of sittin’. I leaned back, feelin’ every groove and dent, thinkin’ how furniture done seen it all—family fights, laughter, sleepy afternoons, even storms that shook the whole house.

Reggie sipped his tea, quieter now. “You right,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ fancy, but it steady. I get that.”

And for a while, we just sat there, two cousins, chairs creakin’, mugs in hand, lettin’ the porch, the furniture, and the tea hold our thoughts. Simple. Steady. Home.