Porch Talk and Chamomile

I was settin’ on the back porch, my legs kicked up on the rickety old coffee table. That table had seen better days—edges chipped, one leg a little shorter than the others—but it held my tea steady, and that’s all that mattered. I sipped slow, lettin’ the chamomile warmth settle in my chest.

“Boy, you act like you never seen a sunset before,” my cousin Jada said, leanin’ on the railing. She had a mug in her hand too, one that matched mine, and she swirled the tea like she was paintin’ a picture.

“Maybe I ain’t,” I said, shruggin’. “Maybe I just like watchin’ it right.”

She laughed, a sound that bounced off the old rocking chairs and the peeling paint. “You always talkin’ fancy ‘bout simple things. Tea and furniture, boy? That your whole vibe?”

I nodded. “Don’t need nothin’ else.” I reached over, tapped the coffee table, and felt the grooves under my fingers. “This table? Been through birthdays, arguments, game nights… all the stories. Furniture like this? It remember stuff.”

Jada sipped her tea, thoughtful now. “You right. Ain’t nobody tellin’ these stories but us.”

For a while, we just sat there, quiet but talkin’ in the way people do when they don’t really need words. The sun dipped lower, the tea got cooler, and the porch seemed to breathe with us. Furniture, tea, and family—it was simple, but it was everything.