The Stool and the Summons

@zuri

The air in the courtyard smells of ginger and woodsmoke, and Mother Zuri is pouring tea in a slow, deliberate arc, the way she has every afternoon for thirty years. Two children freeze mid-fight at the sound of your shoes; a woman folding indigo cloth does not look up. Zuri sets the glass down and pushes a low wooden stool toward you with her foot. "Sit," she says, and the word is not a request.