Ain’t nobody touch Mama’s good table ‘cept her and God. Solid oak, thick legs, don’t wobble for nothin’. She say it’s a “settlin’ table.” Whatever sit there gotta get settled.
She already got the kettle singin’ when I walk in. Tea bags lined up like soldiers on the counter.
“You early,” she say.
“World too loud today,” I tell her, droppin’ my keys on the sideboard.
“Makes sense.” She pour the water, steam kiss the air. “Sit.”
I grab the chair with the cushion tore just enough to whisper secrets. The table between us feel heavy—like it remember every argument, every laugh, every apology we ain’t quite say right.
Mama slide my cup over. “This ain’t sweet tea.”
“I ain’t ask for sweet.”
She raise an eyebrow. Proud of that.
We sip in silence. Tea strong, furniture quiet but watchful.
“You keep changin’ places,” she say finally, tappin’ the table twice. “But you ain’t changin’ pace.”
That hit harder than the tea.
I lean back, chair complainin’. “Maybe I’m tired.”
“Then rest,” she say. “Even the couch gotta hold still to be useful.”
I breathe. Tea warm my chest. Table don’t judge. Chair still hold me.
For a minute, I stay still too.
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