The House That Learned Our Weight

The house always sound different when rain start comin’ down slow. Not storm rain—just that steady drip that make you feel like time stretched out on purpose. I was in the living room, sittin’ on the long couch with the dip in the middle, the one everybody swear they don’t sit on no more but somehow always end up on.

Couch know us. That’s the thing. You sit too gentle on it, it squeak. Sit heavy, it sigh. I was sittin’ heavy.

Coffee table in front of me crowded with coasters nobody use, old mail, and Mama’s teapot—cream-colored, chipped at the spout. She don’t toss nothin’ that still work. Tea inside steamin’, smell like black tea and lemon peel, the kind that make your shoulders drop without askin’.

Mama in the dining room, messin’ with the chairs like she always do. Straightenin’ ‘em, even though ain’t nobody comin’ over.

“You gon’ drink that?” she call out.

“In a minute,” I say, already reached for it.

I wrap my hands ‘round the mug. Heat sink in my palms. Furniture creak when I lean forward, the couch lettin’ me know it still here, still doin’ its job.

“You sittin’ like you carryin’ a lot,” Mama say, standin’ in the doorway now.

I shrug. “Life heavy.”

She nod, like that explain everything. “That chair by the window?” she say. “That thing held your uncle through two divorces. Ain’t crack yet.”

I glance over. Chair look rough. Legs scratched up, armrest smooth from years of hands gripplin’ it.

Mama keep talkin’. “Furniture learn people weight. Emotional too. Stay long enough, it adjust.”

I take a slow sip. Tea bitter at first, then settle warm in my chest. Rain tap the windows like punctuation.

“I been thinkin’ I gotta move,” I admit. “New city. New start.”

Mama smile small. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with movin’. But don’t think leavin’ mean you lighter. Sometimes you just carryin’ yourself somewhere else.”

Couch dip deeper when I lean back. Like it agree.

The lamp buzz low. Floorboard pop. Table stay sturdy in the other room, chairs lined up like they ready to listen.

I look around—at the couch, the chair, the table, the teapot—and feel somethin’ loosen.

“Maybe I stay a little,” I say.

Mama nod, picks up her own mug. “Tea still hot.”

And for the first time in a while, so was home.