The Water Was Warm

They met at the lake every June.

No invites, no flyers, no RSVPs. Just a call that passed through the city like breath:
“We heading to the water this weekend.”

By ten in the morning, the park near the lake was alive—coolers cracking open, old-school R&B pouring from someone’s speaker, towels spread across picnic tables, and braids shining under the sun like ropes dipped in honey.

Nia walked barefoot across the grass, anklets jingling softly. Her hair was in a low bun wrapped in a silky scarf the color of mango flesh, and her skin glowed under layers of whipped cocoa butter. Behind her, her younger brother ran toward the water with half a slice of watermelon in his hand and joy written all over his face.

Nia waved to her aunties, who were setting up folding chairs under a sycamore tree. Their voices blended into one beautiful noise—gossip, prayers, and play-fighting over spades and dominoes. Nearby, cousins grilled sweet corn and veggie skewers seasoned with smoked paprika and thyme.

It smelled like peace.

At the shore, a group of girls took turns dunking each other under the water, their locs and braids heavy with lake droplets, their laughter louder than the splash. No one told them to stop. No one warned them about messing up their hair.

Because here, hair wasn’t a burden.
It was a badge.
It was history worn high.
It was never up for negotiation.

Nia stepped into the water slowly, feeling the mud squish between her toes. The lake was warm, like somebody had whispered love into it overnight. She swam out far enough to feel her shoulders let go of the weight they’d carried all week. Floating there, arms out, eyes closed, she let the breeze wrap around her like a lullaby.

When she came back to shore, someone handed her a mason jar filled with iced hibiscus and lemon slices. She smiled, sipping slowly, letting the tartness bloom on her tongue.

"You good?" her cousin asked, nudging her with a sun-warmed elbow.

"Yeah," Nia said. "I’m good. I feel...soft."

"That’s how it’s supposed to be."

By evening, the music had shifted to slow jams. The sky dripped with pink and orange, like it had taken its time getting dressed. Families packed up chairs and rinsed off feet, but no one rushed.

The water had done what it always did—
Held them.
Healed them.
Asked nothing but presence in return.

And as Nia watched her people move through the dusk, crowns uncovered, skin glowing, hearts unguarded, she thought:

This is freedom. This is love. And I don’t have to trade any part of me to keep it.