Steeped in the Living Room

I was loungin’ in the corner chair by the window, my mug of tea warm between my hands. That chair was old—cushions saggy, arms frayed—but it held me steady, like it had seen everything I been through and still didn’t judge.

“My boy sittin’ there all quiet again,” my mama said from the sofa, folding the blanket over her knees. “You gon’ sip that tea ‘til it cold if you keep starin’ out the window.”

I chuckled, liftin’ the mug to my lips. “Ain’t in no rush, Mama. This tea got patience.”

She smiled, eyes soft. “True, but don’t let patience turn into procrastination, now.”

The coffee table in front of me had scratches, dents, even a burn mark from some forgotten candle, but it held my mug like a loyal friend. Furniture in this house? It spoke louder than words. Each scratch, each nick—it was history.

I took a long sip, let the warmth travel slow. Mama hummed softly on the sofa, the room filled with quiet comfort. Cushions, tables, tea—they all held me together better than anything else.