The Couch That Knew My Name

That couch ain’t never been pretty. Faded green, fabric balled up in spots, one cushion always tryna escape. But everybody in the family swear it got a memory. Like if you sit long enough, it remember you back.

I come through on a Sunday evening, sky still holdin’ that soft blue before night take it. House quiet except for the kettle hummin’. Grandma in the kitchen, movin’ slow—but sure—as time.

“Sit where you want,” she call out.

She ain’t gotta say it twice. I drop on the couch, feel it sink just right, like it shaped itself for me. Coffee table in front dusty, got old magazines stacked uneven. End table wobble if you bump it, so nobody do.

Grandma bring the tea over in her good cups—the ones she only use when talk gon’ be real.

“You been gone awhile,” she say, handin’ me my cup.

“I been learnin’ how to leave,” I answer.

She nod like that make sense. Tea steam rise, curl into ghosts. Smell like black tea and lemon peel.

Couch let out a soft sigh when I lean back. It know my weight. Know how I sit when I’m tired. When I’m scared.

“People think movement mean progress,” Grandma say, settin’ her cup down careful. “But sometimes you gotta stay somewhere long enough for life to catch up.”

I trace a tear in the couch fabric with my finger. “What if it never do?”

“Look at this couch,” she say. “Still here. Still useful. Still holdin’.”

We sip in silence. Clock tick. Floorboard pop like it stretchin’.

Couch hold me. Tea warm me.

For the first time in a long while, I let myself stay.