Cousins, Crumbs, and Coconut Punch

 It started with a cobweb in the corner of the hallway.

One little thread, shining in the sunlight like it was proud of itself. I was reaching for it with a broom when my cousin Tariq walked in and wrinkled his nose.

“You cleaning today?” he asked, like I was about to commit a crime.

I leaned on the broom dramatically. “I’m trying. This house hasn’t seen a deep clean since the family BBQ two months ago. I still smell hot links in the couch cushions.”

Tariq nodded. “You need backup.”

Within thirty minutes, three more cousins arrived—Deja with her wireless speaker, Malik with his mop bucket, and Shae carrying a giant jug of her famous coconut punch like a peace offering to the Cleaning Gods.

And just like that, it turned into a party.

We moved through the house like a crew on a mission: Operation Fresh Start. Deja was on music duty, bouncing around in fuzzy socks, blasting throwbacks that made us dance between chores. Malik vacuumed like he was chasing ghosts. Tariq wiped baseboards with the precision of a surgeon. And me? I was the general, directing traffic and yelling things like, “Don’t forget the top of the fridge!” and “Who put socks in the junk drawer?!”

Shae was mostly in the kitchen—cleaning, yes, but also cooking with her earbuds in, head bobbing. The smell of garlic and peppers drifted through the house while she stirred up something in a skillet and occasionally yelled, “This better count as my chore!”

Halfway through, we took a break. Deja passed around paper cups of Shae’s coconut punch—cold, sweet, and so strong it made your eyes water just a little.

“I’m gonna need this recipe,” I said between sips.

Shae grinned. “Family secret. You’ve got to survive three deep cleans to earn it.”

We laughed, sitting in a circle on the living room floor, backs against freshly wiped walls, music still playing low. The house wasn’t perfect. There were streaks on the mirrors, and the junk drawer still didn’t make sense. But the vibe? Immaculate.

That’s when I realized something—this house, my house, didn’t have to look like a magazine to be beautiful. It was beautiful because of the people in it. Because Tariq never let anyone sweep under the rug—literally or emotionally. Because Deja danced like nobody was watching even when we all were. Because Malik sang along badly and loudly to every song. Because Shae made spicy food like it was her love language.

And because I, even with my cluttered counters and crooked picture frames, was enough.

Later, we piled into the kitchen, sharing plates of Shae’s coconut rice and fried plantains, wiping sweat from our faces and laughing so hard we nearly knocked over the punch bowl.

Tariq raised his fork like a toast. “To crumbs, cousins, and coconut chaos.”

I raised mine too. “And to finding joy in the mess.”