Harmattan
The dry wind, Francis home, Charles on the bicycle, and a year that ends with one person knowing.
The harmattan came in on Thursday and the whole road went grey. Lips cracking, dust on everything, the sun a white coin. Mama has the jackets out. Francis is home from Enugu and the house is loud in the way it is only loud when all four of us are in it, Eudora arguing with everybody, Charles trying to be Francis.
I taught Charles to ride without the hand on the seat today. Between the blocks, in the sand, the same place Francis taught me. He fell twice and did not cry and then he went, wobbling, all the way to the water tank and back, shouting my name. I want to remember his face. I am writing it down so I have it.
The year, then. Nineteen, twenty in the spring. One person knows, if knowing is the word for what E. and I have never said. One prayer, changed. One notebook, half full, under the mattress on the wall side.
I still have not written the sentence. Next year. Or I will say it to E. first and write it after. I do not know which is braver. Merry Christmas, whoever you are, reading this. It was a good year in the parts that were good.