The neighborhood was the kind where kids rode bikes with no shoes and folks waved just because they knew your mama. A place where the breeze came slow, sweet, and full of sound—windchimes, screen doors creaking, laughter slipping through open windows like gospel.
Miss Lottie’s porch sat right in the heart of it.
It was wide, painted pale yellow, with ivy climbing the railings and a ceiling fan that spun lazy circles above. Every Sunday after church, the porch turned into a gathering place—not loud, not showy, just full of the kind of peace you feel in your bones.
Today, the porch was full of crowns.
Kayla sat on the steps, legs crossed, her short fro brushed into perfect little circles. Her niece leaned against her knee, scalp freshly greased and box braids swinging with beads that clacked like soft rain. Across from them, Darius leaned back in a rocking chair, his locs thick and clean, pulled into a low ponytail. The sides of his head were faded crisp, like he’d just stepped out the chair this morning.
Next to him, Auntie Shell twisted her salt-and-pepper curls while sipping on sweet tea. She wore a house dress and lemon oil on her skin, the kind of woman who told you the truth and handed you a biscuit in the same breath.
“Y’all remember when Kayla had that blowout so big it blocked the TV?” Shell asked.
“I remember,” Darius laughed. “She was a walking eclipse.”
Kayla rolled her eyes with a grin. “And y’all was mad ‘cause the hair had more shine than the screen.”
From inside, music played—classic soul, just low enough to leave room for conversation. The air smelled like castor oil and pineapple cobbler. Somebody’s kid ran by with a plastic water gun, slipping on the walkway and cackling the whole way down.
No one minded. This was the rhythm.
Twists, fros, fades, locs, cornrows, flat twists, coils held with love and hands that knew what they were doing. Nobody had to explain their hair, shrink their joy, or make room for someone else’s discomfort. They showed up just as they were—and the porch caught them like arms wide open.
A neighbor passed by, waved from the sidewalk. She had her baby in a sling and her head wrapped high, fabric bright against the morning sun. Auntie Shell nodded and said, “Look at her—shining just like her grandma used to.”
The sun eased across the porch boards, turning brown skin golden and casting soft shadows over cheeks and closed eyes. There was no rush to go anywhere. No need to be anything other than present.
“You good?” Kayla asked her niece, adjusting one of the girl’s beads.
The child nodded, quiet. “I feel safe here.”
Kayla kissed her forehead. “Good. That’s what it’s for.”
And so the porch held them all—generations deep, hair wide and wondrous, hearts soft from being seen.
Not judged.
Not questioned.
Just accepted.
Exactly as they came.
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