The Table That Stayed

The kitchen table been in that spot longer than anybody could remember. It wasn’t big, wasn’t fancy, but it stayed. Legs scratched from chairs gettin’ dragged, one corner darker where somebody spilled tea years ago and never fully scrubbed it out. That afternoon, it sat right where it always did, catchin’ light from the window as the sun slipped lower.

Mama poured tea into mismatched mugs, set mine down like she already knew where I’d be sitting. Outside the kitchen window, the backyard trees moved slow in the breeze. Leaves shook against each other, makin’ a soft sound that blended with the hum of the fridge.

“You gon’ sit or just hover?” my sister asked, pullin’ out a chair.

I sat. The chair creaked but didn’t complain. It leaned back just enough to feel like it knew my weight. I wrapped my hands around the mug, felt the heat settle in.

“This table still uneven,” my brother said, nudgin’ it with his knee.

“It been uneven,” Mama said. “Just gotta know where to put your cup.”

Nobody argued. We adjusted without thinkin’. That’s how it always worked.

The breeze outside picked up, pressed against the screen door, rattled it once and then eased off. A bird hopped across the fence, paused, then flew off like whatever it wanted wasn’t here.

Mama leaned against the counter. “Y’all remember when this table came from Aunt Lorraine’s house?”

I nodded. “And she said don’t put hot pots on it.”

My sister laughed. “Like we listened.”

The table had the marks to prove it.

Nature stayed present the whole time. Wind sliding in and out. Light shifting on the floor. Shadows from the tree branches crawlin’ slowly up the cabinets. Nobody mentioned it, but everybody noticed.

We drank our tea quiet. No rush. The kind of quiet that don’t feel awkward, just settled. Chairs held steady. Table stayed strong. Family stayed where they were.

After a while, Mama picked up her mug. “Ain’t much changed,” she said.

She was right. Same table. Same chairs. Different years. Different worries. Same way of sittin’ together.

Outside, the wind slowed, leaves barely moving now. Inside, the house felt full without bein’ loud.

When we finished, nobody jumped up right away. Cups stayed on the table. Chairs stayed pulled out.

The table had done its job, same as always—holdin’ what we brought to it and never askin’ for more.