I was sittin’ on my mama’s old wooden rocking chair, the one she always said “been through more stories than any book you ever read,” sippin’ on some chamomile tea. The steam curled up slow, hittin’ my face like it was tryin’ to wake me up gentle. Outside, the sun was lazy, peepin’ through the leaves like it didn’t wanna get all the way up.
“Boy, don’t slouch like you tired of livin’,” my sister called from the kitchen. She had that apron on—one with stains from a hundred dinners she done cooked—and she carried a mug of that same tea. “You gonna spill some, you know?”
I laughed, leanin’ back in that chair. “Ain’t nobody gonna take my tea, sis. This right here? This is mine.”
She shook her head, smilin’ like she already knew I was full of it. “You always say that, but you gon’ end up knockin’ over the whole pot. Careful now.”
I looked around the porch, my eyes landin’ on the small, crooked table mama made herself from scraps she found in the alley. It wobbled a bit, but it held everything we needed—cups, plates, and even the little vase with wildflowers she insisted on keepin’ out here. I ran my hand along the rough edge and felt the history in it, felt like each dent and nick was whisperin’ its own little story.
The tea tasted sweet with a hint of honey. I closed my eyes and just breathed. That porch, that furniture, that tea—they were all quiet reminders: slow down, appreciate, remember where you came from.
“Mama’d like this,” I said softly, more to myself than anyone else. My sister sat next to me, hand brushin’ mine, and for a second, we just sat there. Tea in hand, porch under our feet, and time movin’ slow like it finally learned some manners.
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