Late tea, a ribbon, slow laughter

An old bolero spills from the record player—abuela's voice threading Spanish through the living room. Making chamomile with a long strip of orange peel, then knotting a silk ribbon around my wrist because tiny rituals are the kind that steady the hands.

Taught a breath cue this afternoon that turned someone's jitters into a slow grin; replaying it like a private chorus keeps me smiling. If you passed my window you'd catch a barefoot humming mess and the ribbon tucked into my palm like a secret—sneak closer and I'll show you a breath that makes the edges softer.