Lemon Bubbles and Leftover Love

Jessa hated clutter, but she loved her grandmother’s house.

The tiny cottage always smelled like lavender, cinnamon, and something fried. Today, though, it smelled like... lemon cleaner and old memories. Jessa stood in the living room with her sleeves rolled up and her curls tied in a puff. Beside her, her cousins, aunties, and siblings shuffled through old magazines, photo albums, and half-filled tea tins.

It was cleaning day—not the regular kind. It was the once-every-few-years deep clean. The kind where you find baby photos, forgotten candy in drawers, and clothes that still held the warmth of someone no longer around.

“Okay, okay,” Aunt Mara called out, clapping her hands. “We’re not here to cry over onion jars. We’re here to clean, then eat, then laugh.”

“Sounds like a family reunion slogan,” Jessa joked, elbowing her cousin Lani, who snorted.

Buckets of soap water were passed around, rags flung over shoulders, and someone turned on an old playlist Grandma used to love—jazzy, upbeat, and just funky enough to make even the mop dance.

Jessa found herself dusting picture frames, pausing to smile at a photo of her mom with her afro blown out to the sky. Lani was in the kitchen organizing a chaotic spice cabinet, and someone else was ironing vintage tablecloths in the hallway. It was chaotic but warm.

They paused often to snack—hot cornbread, pineapple soda, and iced hibiscus tea. Someone brought fried plantains, someone else brought empanadas. It became a potluck without planning.

At one point, Jessa stood in the hallway watching everyone bustle about. No makeup, no matching outfits, just sweats, slides, and smiles. And yet... the house was full of beauty. Real, barefaced beauty.

Aunt Mara passed her a warm arepa and said softly, “You know, your grandma never threw anything away because she believed everything had a story.”

Jessa bit into the arepa and nodded, watching Lani sing into a feather duster like a microphone. Everyone was so different. Loud, quiet, silly, serious. But here, that was the point. Everyone fit. Nothing needed to be polished to be loved.

Later, they all sat in the clean living room, legs tucked under them, sipping punch and licking powdered sugar from their fingers.

"Same time next month?" Lani asked, grinning.

Jessa laughed. “Only if we keep the lemon bubbles and the leftover love.”

Because it wasn’t just about cleaning a house. It was about polishing memories, uncovering stories, and celebrating a family exactly as they were—messy, magical, and perfectly imperfect.

Alternate Version

I’ve never liked clutter, but I’ve always loved Grandma’s house.

Today, it smelled less like the usual blend of cinnamon sticks and leftover fried something, and more like lemon cleaner and nostalgia. My sleeves were rolled up, curls shoved into a puff, and an old rag hung from my pocket like I meant business.

Around me, my cousins, aunties, and siblings moved like bees—busy, buzzing, bumping into memories.

“This one says 1982 on it,” my cousin Lani said, holding up a cracked magazine with a model in neon spandex on the cover. “She looks like she could still fight crime.”

“That’s my year,” Aunt Mara called from the hallway, holding a mop like a scepter. “Respect your elders.”

We all laughed. Cleaning Grandma’s house had somehow turned into a reunion. The kind of cleaning where you don’t just find dust—you find baby shoes in old baskets, handwritten recipes between couch cushions, and tea tins with exactly two old peppermints inside.

Aunt Mara clapped like she was leading a choir. “Alright, listen up. We’re not here to cry over onion jars and photo albums. We’re here to clean, eat, and then laugh until our stomachs hurt.”

"Sounds like a family motto," I muttered to Lani, elbowing her.

“Put it on a T-shirt,” she whispered back.

Buckets were passed, soap bubbles floated through the air, and someone queued up Grandma’s favorite playlist—some upbeat jazz that made even the mop want to sashay. We sang, swayed, and scrubbed while the music did half the work.

I dusted picture frames slowly, staring into black-and-white smiles. One had my mom with her afro stretched to the ceiling, arms thrown around Grandma, both of them mid-laugh. I smiled back without meaning to. Lani called me from the kitchen, waist-deep in a spice cabinet that smelled like six countries at once.

“Do you think this is nutmeg or paprika?” she asked, holding a jar with no label and full confidence.

“Both,” I said. “And probably cinnamon too.”

In the middle of the mess, someone passed around hot cornbread and pineapple soda. Someone else offered iced hibiscus tea with mint. It wasn’t planned, but it turned into a feast—plantains, fried yuca, honey butter biscuits, sweet potato chips, and empanadas from a cousin who said she was “just trying a new thing.” I was full before I could even finish sweeping.

We took breaks on the couch—now newly uncovered from old afghans and magazines. I watched Lani sing into a feather duster like a mic, Aunt Mara stretch out on the carpet with a cold soda, and my little brother pretending to polish an already-clean lamp like it was made of gold.

Even in sweats, with scarves tied around heads and lemon-scented hands, the house was beautiful. But more than that, we were beautiful. Loud, soft, quiet, goofy, awkward—there was room for all of it. No one had to pretend. There were no masks here, no expectations. Just us. And for once, that felt like enough.

Later, as the sun dipped and the living room glowed clean and cozy, we gathered with drinks and powdered sugar still dusting our fingertips.

“Same time next month?” Lani asked.

I laughed, stretching my legs across the rug. “Only if we keep the lemon bubbles and the leftover love.”

Because it wasn’t about getting rid of dust or finding the floor under the clutter. It was about finding each other. And maybe, just maybe, finding myself in the middle of the mess.