A summer evening

I spent Sunday afternoon at home. After a pleasant breakfast on the covered porch, looking out over the garden, I felt the pressure of the increasing heat throughout the day. One by one, family members fell down for a nap as they became victims of the heat and lassitude. I was the last to give in, but finally succumbed.

The evening tried to make up for the discomforts of day. A heavy wind blew through the street, raising dust into the air, covering Souleymane mountain in a beige mist.

At home, the flowers rocked wildly, a sea of purple, white and red on a turbulent sea. Metal clanged as Faruh did flips on the home training equipment and the neighbors iron sheeted roof rose and fell. The tree branches rocked as though they were flailing, the plastic sheet covering the wood pile hung on for life and a reddish glow from the sunset illuminated the bathroom and shower walls.

“A red sunset means that tomorrow will be hot,” Nigora said.

Habib found protection and privacy with his friend sitting in Shavkat’s beat-up car. Nigora ran around sweeping, then sat quietly on the covered porch, her back against the wall. She got up to check on the pelmeni soup cooking on the outdoor stove, then raised her arms to the sky.

“What beautiful colors,” she said, “orange and blue and yellow. And the
rain is starting to fall.”

It’s was though we were in a living museum, a museum of movement, where we had to hang on tight, but could still enjoy the colors, the wind and rain against our skins, and the welcoming warm yellow light from indoors.