Sassafrass didn’t really know anybody but Cypress in San Francisco, and she was cold all the time. Her thin smocks for L.A.’s perpetual spring didn’t have the stuff in them to cope with the dense fog and chill of northern California; the cold she felt continually reminded her that she was alone—forsaken, she liked to believe. She huddled in her room with her mama’s carders (Cypress had dug them out of some ancient trunk), and prepared fleece for spinning. She would hum spirituals to herself, like “His Eye Is on the Sparrow, and I Know He’s Watchin’ Me” or “Jesus Is Just Awright with Me, Jesus Is Just Awright with Me” and “I Come to the Garden Alone.” Leroy McCullough would stand in front of her door and sing be-bop love messages to her: “Sassafrass gotta mighty fine ass; won’t you come and play with me . . . be-blee-de—oh-wha-doo . . .” And Cypress would matter-of-factly respond, “Sassafrass is busy today, can you call again tomorrow.” And then whoever was there would just laugh, or toot a horn. Sassafrass would sing her old time praises of the Lord louder, until everyone got quiet, and she shushed too, eventually, and maybe cried or sat among all her wools and stared at the fading floral-pattern floor.

Cypress’ house smelled like curry, and when she wasn’t cooking, she was dancing down at the studio with most of the folks she was cooking for. There was something about dancing that was family, and Cypress loved her family. She could definitely put herself out for some dancer-honkytonk-singer friend in a second, but she could definitely put herself on some railroad tracks for her blood sister. At least that’s how Cypress got herself around to cornering Sassafrass about her “melancholia.”

Sassafrass was trying to be busy, winding thread and counting warp ends per inch, when Cypress caught some of the orange cotton between her toes, in a perfectly executed grande battement. Sassafrass looked piqued, and meowed, “Cypress, you know as well as I do, you’ve always been too bouffant to be any kind of dancer, get your ducky leg outta my yarn. Please, dear.” Cypress was twenty years used to remarks about her peasant figure, and didn’t give two hoots, so she let Sassafrass wrestle with the uselessness of sibling slurs and began packing the stray threads away, like any weaver’s daughter would. She called on all the hopefulness in her core to get Sassafrass to let loose a little and feel the newness of where she was really at. Cypress just moved through Sassafrass’ supplies like she was Sassafrass’ shadow, and Sassafrass watched her sister being impeccable as usual, and realized this was one of those times Cypress would have her way. So she allowed Cypress to lead her by the hand into the kitchen, same as they used to go sneak coffee way into the night at Mama’s, so many questions past.