Pink.

Holt Mettee - Senegal


February 8, 2017

Today it rained. The low tiled and mosaic alleys that separate concrete pastel houses flooded into rushing orange brown rivers, picking up pieces of litter and orange flowers from the trees.

The prayer from the nearby mosque harmonizes with the francophone hip hop playing on the kitchen radio. Pots and pans, sizzling fish and the smell of rice cooking join in prayer. The base on the radio becomes a metronome, pacing, encouraging the voice wavering strong through the thick air. One song. My window.

Women dressed like wild flowers open mouths wide as skirts. Laughter like dandelion seeds in wind. Toes like roots on tile. Voices and laughter sound like food on stove. Like night time keys.

9:00 boy strands in between pink and white on turquoise and yellow. Kicks the ball up in between blue and orange. Face and foot determined, aimed to clear sky.

Small green and white square tiles iced with gray collect the sound of footsteps. Soft angular buildings draped in clothes lines grow orange, blue, pink, yellow.

Ashtrays and mosquito bites on ankles create constellations. Two flies land on faded blue Pokémon sheets.

Eyes soaring over skyline and monstrous clouds glowing.

Food steam through my window smells the color of the house. Sounds like 6:07 pm rain. Streets fill, expand. Doors open.

Holt Mettee