Teacups on the Terrace

I was sittin’ on the terrace, my back against the wooden bench mama built herself. The wood was smooth from years of use, worn in all the right places, and the sun made it smell like summer and old memories. In my hands, a mug of tea steamed, the aroma mixin’ with the fresh air.

“Boy, you sittin’ there like you own the world,” my sister Lani called, bringin’ her own cup to sit next to me. “Tea gon’ get cold if you keep starin’ at the clouds.”

I smiled, slowin’ my sip. “Ain’t in no rush. Chair steady, tea warm… we good.”

She plopped down, leanin’ against the bench, and we both let the porch settle around us—the creaks of the furniture, the wind through the leaves, the distant hum of the street. The table in front of us held two more mugs, small scratches and water rings from years of Sunday chats. Furniture like that? It held stories, every sip, every laugh, every argument.

Lani twirled her spoon in her tea. “You always talk like furniture can teach you somethin’.”

“Maybe it can,” I said, watchin’ the steam curl. “It’s steady, patient, don’t rush. Kinda like tea should be.”

We stayed like that a while, lettin’ the terrace, the bench, and the tea carry us through the quiet afternoon. Simple, warm, steady. Home.