Wind Through the Curtains

The living room was half-lit, morning sun slidin’ through the sheer curtains like it ain’t wanna wake nobody up too loud. You could hear the wind outside, rustlin’ the pecan tree near the fence, leaves whisperin’ soft like they been talkin’ all night. I was laid back on the old couch, the one with the deep dip in the middle where everybody end up sittin’ no matter how much space around it got. Springs creaked a little when I shifted, but that couch always held me right.

Cup of sweet tea rested on the side table, steam slippin’ up slow, smellin’ like sugar and lemon peel. Mama brewed it early, same way she always did. Said tea taste better when the house still quiet and the world ain’t fully started yet.

“You always choose that spot,” my auntie Renee said from the recliner. “Whole couch wide open, and you right there in the dip.”

I shrugged. “That dip know me. Furniture remember who sit where.”

She laughed, sippin’ her tea. “Boy, you talk like these chairs got memory.”

“They do,” I said. “You just gotta sit long enough to hear it.”

The coffee table in front of us was scarred up bad—edges rounded off from years of elbows, cup rings layered on top of cup rings like tree rings showin’ time passin’. That table done held everything: homework papers, plates of pancakes, dominoes, folded laundry, grief, laughter. Ain’t nothing fancy about it, but it stayed. Never cracked. Never folded.

Outside, the wind picked up, nudging the branches against the window real gentle. Not loud. Just enough to remind you nature always present even when you inside. Curtains breathed in and out slow, like the house itself was alive.

Cousin Malik shuffled in, socks slidin’ on the floor. “Smell like tea and sleep in here,” he said. “That the good kind.”

Mama followed him, wiping her hands on a towel. “Y’all sit like statues in here,” she said. “Anybody refillin’ they cup or just lettin’ it get cold?”

I lifted mine a little. “I’m sittin’ with it. Tea don’t like bein’ rushed.”

Mama nodded like that made perfect sense. “Furniture too.”

She poured more tea, the clink of ceramic against ceramic soft but sharp enough to cut through the quiet. Outside, a bird hopped along the fence, peckin’ at nothin’ in particular, just enjoyin’ the morning same as us.

Malik dropped onto the floor against the couch, back leaned up like it was built just for him. “Y’all always do this,” he said. “Sit quiet like the house talkin’.”

“It is,” Auntie Renee said. “You just don’t listen yet.”

The cushions sighed when I leaned back more, like they was settlin’ in with me. I watched the sunlight crawl across the rug, inch by inch, stoppin’ on the leg of the armchair Mama refused to get rid of even though the fabric faded. Said that chair carried her daddy’s laugh in it. Said some things ain’t meant to be replaced.

Nature stayed present the whole time. Wind hummin’, leaves tappin’, light shiftin’. Ain’t nobody go outside. Ain’t nobody plan to. Nature don’t always ask you to step into it—it come find you if you still enough.

“You remember them summers when the power be out?” I said.

Mama smiled. “Fans off. Windows open. Furniture hot. Tea still gettin’ drunk though.”

Auntie Renee laughed. “Y’all sittin’ on floors back then, listenin’ to cicadas like they a soundtrack.”

“And this couch?” Malik said, patting it. “Same one. Still here.”

I nodded. “That’s what I’m sayin’. Furniture loyal. Trees loyal. Family loyal, even when it messy.”

Outside, a cloud slid over the sun, coolin’ the room just a little. Curtains slowed down. The wind eased. Everything adjusted without complainin’.

We sat like that a long time. Nobody rushin’. Tea coolin’ then gettin’ reheated. Chairs holdin’. Tables listenin’. Nature breathin’ right outside the glass, remindin’ us time don’t need help movin’.

Finally Mama said, “This right here? This enough.”

And everybody understood exactly what she meant.

Furniture steady.
Tea warm.
Family present.
Nature right there, mindin’ its business.

Home ain’t loud.
It just patient.