Steam and Sunday

The bathroom smelled like eucalyptus and lemongrass, and the mirror was fogged over with steam. Zora rubbed mango butter into her arms while her favorite playlist bounced off the tile walls—voices that sang like home, soft and full of soul.

In the next room, her cousin Layla was wrapping her curls into a pineapple, careful not to disturb the curl pattern she’d defined with hours of finger-coiling the night before. Her bonnet sat ready on the pillow, silk and soft, the kind of fabric their grandmother used to sew by hand.

“Girl, you coming or not?” Layla called, laughing.

Zora appeared in the doorway in an oversized shirt, her legs bare and still warm from the shower. “I’m trying to get this butter to melt in,” she said, grinning. “You know it don’t move unless you talk nice to it.”

They both laughed, the way only two people who grew up together could—like breathing in rhythm.

It was Sunday, which meant porch brunch at Auntie Vi’s. It wasn’t written down, but everyone knew. You showed up with something in your hands, even if it was just your hunger. You wore your good earrings. You brought your appetite and your updates. And if you had a new style—edges laid, twists set, fade crisp—you made sure to walk slow enough for somebody to notice.

By the time they arrived, the porch was already alive. Auntie Vi stood at the grill with a headwrap tall as a crown, flipping plantains and humming something holy. The younger cousins ran barefoot on the walkway, and someone had set up a folding table with dominoes. The click-clack of the pieces was its own language.

Layla and Zora settled in with their cousins under the mimosa tree, where the air smelled like coconut oil, sweet smoke, and cardamom from the pot of chai on the stove inside. Uncle Theo passed out little plates with jerk chicken and sautéed kale, and someone else brought out a pitcher of cold water with mint and lime floating in it.

“What you working on now?” Auntie Vi asked Zora, between bites.

“A new herbal blend,” she said. “Something for stress and focus. Basil, lavender, maybe a touch of sage.”

“Put a little honeybush in it,” Auntie Vi said, not even looking up. “You need sweetness with strength.”

They nodded, both knowing exactly what she meant.

As the sun shifted higher, the music turned up. Bodies swayed gently in plastic chairs, or stood to two-step, or just leaned into one another like trees bent with time and affection. No one asked for permission to rest their head on someone’s shoulder. No one questioned the meaning of comfort when fingers reached up to retwist a loose braid or brush away lint.

It was the kind of day where everything felt whole.
No performance.
No code-switch.
Just skin kissed by shea and sun, and love that didn’t need to be named to be felt.

By the time dusk rolled in, the porch was quieter, but full.

And everyone left with more than they came with.