That armchair by the window always lean a little left, like it tired of standin’ straight. Grandpa used to sit there every mornin’, tea in hand, hummin’ low like the house needed comfort.
I ease myself into it, feel the cushion hug my back. Coffee table scuffed up, got rings from cups that stayed too long. Ain’t nobody ever apologized to that table, but it held everything anyway.
Mama set the tray down gentle. Two chipped teacups, mismatched like us. Steam rise, fog the air.
“You talk now?” she ask.
“Nah,” I say. “Just listenin’.”
She nod. That the answer she wanted.
We sip slow. Tea taste like peaches and patience. Silence stretch, but it ain’t empty. Furniture soak up the things we ain’t ready to carry yet.
Mama rock on the couch, springs sighin’. “House remember,” she say. “Even what folks don’t say.”
I glance at the armchair, the table, the couch. They all seen tears fall and stay.
“Good,” I say, liftin’ my cup. “Somebody gotta remember for me.”
Mama smile. Teacups clink soft.
The armchair lean left like it agree.
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