Ain’t nobody ever told me a couch could choose you.
But that’s exactly what happened the day the forest decided my family was done just watchin’ and ready to act.
It started with the loveseat.
That old thing been sittin’ on our back porch longer than I been alive. Cushions saggin’, wood legs scratched up, one armrest always wobblin’ like it got arthritis. Mama used to say, “Don’t nobody throw that out. It’s still got purpose.” I never asked what she meant. I just figured Mama was sentimental like that.
That morning, the air felt thick. Not hot, not cold—just heavy, like the world holdin’ its breath. Birds was quiet. Wind barely moved. Even the trees behind our house looked like they was leanin’ closer.
I sat down on the loveseat, and it sighed.
Not no squeaky-spring sound either. A real sigh. Long. Deep. Tired.
I froze.
“Malik,” I said low. “You hear that?”
He stepped out the house, squintin’. “Hear what?”
The loveseat shifted under me, wood creakin’ like knuckles crackin’. Then it spoke.
“Family present,” it said. “Good. We been waitin’.”
I jumped up so fast I nearly fell backward. Malik yelled. Tia dropped the basket she was carryin’. Mama came out slow, real slow, like she already knew what she was finna see.
She looked at the loveseat and nodded once. “So it’s time,” she said.
I stared at her. “Time for WHAT?”
The loveseat’s cushions puffed up, sittin’ taller, prouder. “Time for y’all to remember who you are,” it said. “And what this land been protectin’.”
The trees behind the house shuddered. Roots pulled up from the ground like fingers stretchin’ after sleep. A path opened where there hadn’t never been one, dirt smooth and glowing faint green.
Tia whispered, “Ain’t no way.”
Mama took a deep breath. “Shoes on. All of y’all.”
Malik blinked. “You just—believin’ this?”
Mama looked at him. “Baby, our family been listenin’ to wood and wind longer than you think.”
The loveseat slid forward on its own, leading us toward the path. Other furniture followed. The old dining chairs from inside scraped their way out the door. The coffee table walked on four stubby legs. Even the busted nightstand hopped behind us, drawer rattlin’ like it was nervous.
We crossed into the forest, and everything changed.
Light filtered different under them trees—greener, thicker, like magic mixed into it. Leaves shimmered. Bark glowed with symbols I felt more than understood. The ground was warm under my feet, hummin’ like it recognized us.
“Heroes step careful,” the loveseat said. “This forest alive. It remember.”
Animals watched us pass. Deer with eyes too smart. Birds that hovered instead of flew. A fox bowed its head when Mama walked by.
Malik leaned toward me. “I ain’t built for this,” he muttered.
“Yes you is,” the forest whispered back.
We reached a clearing where furniture stood in a circle—rocking chairs, benches, wardrobes tall as trees. At the center sat a throne carved from living oak, roots still twistin’, leaves sproutin’ from its back.
The throne spoke, voice deep enough to shake dirt loose.
“Family of Keepers. Blood of Guardians. Step forward.”
Mama did first. Always Mama.
“We here,” she said. “What you need?”
The throne glowed brighter. “A hero don’t rise alone. A hero rise with family. This forest been under watch since before names. Now something comin’ that don’t respect life.”
The ground trembled. Shadows shifted at the edge of the trees—wrong shadows, movin’ against the light.
Tia swallowed. “So what… we fightin’?”
The loveseat rolled up beside me. “Protectin’. Big difference.”
The furniture circled closer, wood creakin’ like muscles flexin’. The forest wrapped around us, vines curlin’ gentle at our ankles, leaves brushing our shoulders like reassurance.
“You,” the throne said, lookin’ straight at me, “hear the furniture best. You lead.”
I felt heat rush my chest. Fear too. But underneath? Pride. Like somethin’ ancient clicked into place.
“I don’t got no sword,” I said.
A chair stepped forward, splitting into pieces midair, reshaping into a staff carved with glowing runes. It landed in my hand, warm and steady.
“Hero use what listens to ’em,” the forest said.
Malik got gauntlets formed from table legs and iron hinges. Tia received a shield woven from roots and drawer panels. Mama? She didn’t get a weapon.
She didn’t need one.
The trees bent to her will. The ground rose when she stepped. The wind followed her breath.
The shadows rushed us.
Furniture slammed together, forming barriers. Chairs charged like soldiers. Vines snapped and wrapped, dragging darkness back into the soil. I lifted my staff and felt the forest move with me—every step supported, every strike guided.
“This OUR land,” Malik yelled. “You lost!”
The shadows screamed like splintering wood and vanished into smoke.
When it was over, the forest sighed. Deep. Relieved.
The throne bowed. “Guardians confirmed.”
The furniture settled. Trees straightened. Animals returned to their quiet watch.
We walked home slow, the loveseat leading again. Once we crossed the tree line, everything stilled. Furniture went back to normal. Forest closed its path.
The loveseat sat right where it always had.
Ordinary.
But when I sat down, it whispered, “Whenever we call again… you answer.”
I looked at my family—muddy, tired, alive.
“Always,” I said.
Because heroes don’t always leave home.
Sometimes home rises up and asks you to stay.
No comments:
Post a Comment