Morning ain’t never loud in this house. It ease in. Sun creep through the curtains like it polite, land soft on the coffee table where yesterday still sittin’—a ring from somebody cup, a folded napkin, the teapot Mama forgot to put away ‘cause talk went long.
I’m already up, sittin’ on the edge of the loveseat. Not all the way comfortable, not ready to relax yet. Loveseat been here since I was small, upholstery faded into a color nobody can name. You sit wrong on it, it complain. Sit honest, it settle.
Kettle start singin’ in the kitchen, that thin whistle that let you know somethin’ almost ready. I get up slow—floorboard under my heel creak once, then stop. That board only do that for me. Furniture know footsteps. Know weight. Know intention.
I pour the tea real careful. Mama’s favorite pot—white with little blue flowers, handle glued back on years ago and still holdin’. Steam rise like it stretchin’. Smell like Earl Grey and patience.
Mama come in while I’m stirrin’, robe tied loose, eyes halfway awake. She nod at the mug in my hand.
“You made it strong?”
“Like you taught me,” I say. “Strong enough to mean somethin’.”
She smile, grab her own cup, and move to the dining table. That table heavy. Don’t slide easy. You gotta mean to pull a chair out. Chairs scrape loud if you rush ‘em.
We sit.
Silence sit with us too—not awkward, just present. Sun crawl across the tabletop, catchin’ scratches from old arguments, from laughter, from hands slammin’ down when words couldn’t come fast enough.
“You still thinkin’ ‘bout goin’?” Mama ask, not lookin’ at me.
I blow on my tea. “Yeah… but not like before. Not like I’m tryna outrun somethin’.”
She nod. “Good. Furniture ain’t built for folks who always runnin’.”
I almost laugh at that. Almost.
I glance around—the china cabinet in the corner, doors slightly off; the old side chair nobody pick first but always end up in; the couch in the next room sprawled wide like it waitin’ for company even when none comin’.
“Funny,” I say, “how all this stuff still standin’.”
“‘Cause it was allowed to rest,” Mama reply. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with rest.”
I sip again. Tea hot, slightly bitter, solid. Like the truth don’t gotta be sweet to be useful.
Wind come through the window, curtain lift and fall. Chair legs hum low against the floor. House breathin’.
Later, I move back to the living room, sit all the way down on the couch this time. Let it take me. Cushion dip just right. Coffee table close enough if I need to set my mug down. End table solid if I gotta lean.
I ain’t fix nothin’ today. Ain’t decide no grand future. Ain’t pack no bags.
But I sit.
And the furniture hold.
And the tea stay warm.
Sometimes, that enough to remind you—you got weight, yeah, but you also got a place to put it.
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