When the Table Finally Spoke

That long dining table been in the family longer than most the stories attached to it. Big ol’ thing, deep scratches runnin’ down its back like it survived storms. Everybody say, Don’t lean on it too hard, but it never cracked yet.

I come over after dark. Kitchen light soft, yellow like memory. Mama got the kettle goin’, steam already foggin’ the cabinets. She don’t ask why I’m there. She just nod toward the chair with the loose rung—my chair.

I pull it out. It complain a little, but it hold.

She sets two cups on the table, porcelain thin enough you can see the glow from the light inside ‘em. Tea smell like ginger and somethin’ sharp—truth, probably.

“You still lettin’ folks rush you?” Mama ask while pourin’.

I stare at the tabletop. My reflection broke up in the dents and marks. “World don’t slow just ‘cause I ask nice.”

She hum. “Furniture do.”

That table been witness to everything. Homework fights, card games that got too serious, birthdays with cake leanin’ to one side. It held elbows slammin’ down in anger and hands reachin’ out for forgiveness. It stayed.

I wrap my palms around the cup. Heat seep in, steady. “I don’t feel steady,” I admit.

Mama sit across from me, chair legs kiss the floor. “Ain’t nobody born sturdy. You get that way by holdin’ weight.”

The tea bite at first, then settle. I set the cup down, notice my hands ain’t shakin’ no more.

Table creak real low, like it speakin’ just to us.

Mama smile. “See? Even wood know when you ready to listen.”

I lean forward, arms on the table. For once, I don’t feel like it might break.