The Porch Light

Every evening, the porch light came on just before the sun went down. It wasn’t a fancy bulb—just a soft amber glow, the kind that made everyone look good. Made skin shine like polished mahogany. Made laughter sound warmer.

Maya was already on the porch when her grandfather stepped outside, tugging a wide-toothed comb through his salt-and-pepper beard, humming a tune she’d heard all her life but could never name. He settled beside her with a jar of pickled okra and a glass of lemon balm tea. The tea leaves had come from the backyard—grown next to the mint, just behind the patch of aloe her grandmother always used on burns and braided scalps.

"You see how the sky turns lavender before the dark?" he asked, tapping the porch rail.

She nodded, her own hair wrapped in a scarf to preserve the twist-out she'd worked on all afternoon. Her mother had shown her how to use flaxseed gel from scratch—boiled and strained with care—and now her coils bounced with each shift of her head.

From inside came the sound of someone opening foil over something warm—probably baked sweet potatoes or catfish seasoned in a way only her auntie could get right. The air was thick with it: cayenne, thyme, onion, stories.

People started arriving without needing to be invited. Her cousins, friends, neighbors. Some carried folding chairs. Others brought stories, playing cards, a little speaker bumping old-school grooves. One of the boys had a skateboard under one arm and a silk bonnet hanging from his wrist—he handed it to his sister like it was the crown it was.

On the porch, the women gathered in a corner to oil each other’s scalps, rubbing castor oil between their palms, the scent traveling down the steps like a blessing. The men clinked glasses and talked slow, voices deep like they’d been steeped in molasses. They spoke of dreams and land and who had the best barbecue rub.

As night folded in, the kids lit sparklers on the lawn, dancing like fireflies, their laughter cutting through the darkness like gospel.

Maya leaned back in her chair, letting the music and hum of cicadas braid themselves into her memory. There was no rush here. No need to explain anything. Not the silk scarves, or the herbs in mason jars, or the way everyone touched each other’s hair like it was holy.

The porch light stayed on well past midnight.

Just like always.
Just like love.