Sunday on the Sofa

We was loungin’ in the living room, me and Big Mama, sippin’ on sweet tea like it was liquid sunshine. The sofa we sat on was old—arms frayed, cushions saggin’ in all the right places—but it was ours, and it creaked every time we shifted like it was talkin’ back to us.

“Child, you gotta slow down,” Big Mama said, settin’ her cup on the end table. That table? Handmade, pine wood, wobbly legs, and every scratch tellin’ a story of family dinners, late-night homework, and Sunday cards. “You runnin’ through life like you chasin’ somebody else’s clock.”

I smiled, huggin’ my knees. “Ain’t nobody chasin’ me, Mama. I just—” I paused, stirrin’ my tea, watchin’ the ice clink. “I just like it quiet sometimes, that’s all.”

She chuckled, reachin’ over to pat my hand. “Quiet’s good, baby. But don’t forget to live in it too.”

The sunlight poured through the curtains, dust dancin’ in the beams. I leaned back, felt the cushions swallow me up, and let the warmth mix with the sweet tea buzz. Furniture, tea, family—all tangled up in the comfort of home. Ain’t nothing fancy, but it spoke louder than any words could.

We stayed like that a while, lettin’ the tea cool and the room hum with our own kind of peace.