In Mali this summer, I always thought of dusk and dust together, the day ending and the loose sand rising from the bare ground, grayish clouds of engine exhaust in the streets. Here, in the winter, the elision comes apart. On my way to dinner this evening, the harbor was blue and gold in the late, clear light.
I’m thinking about seagulls in parking lots, feathers puffed and heads tucked, standing all apart from each other. Slicks of ice unmelted in alleys. Cold rooms with mattresses on the floor, collapsing sofas that serve as beds, or the place where the social worker says stay in the car and the young man joins us there, quiet quiet nodding. He has the darkest circles under his eyes, a cap pulled tight over his ears. My coffee’s stale in the cupholder, but tonight I will come in from the cold to a warm restaurant, a shared bottle of wine. How lucky I am.