Atar-bound

At 110km per hour, the Peace Corps car pounds down a barely paved road. The sun set an hour ago, but even with the windows down, sweat still pours down the curve of my calves, the small of my back, my modestly covered forearms. Twilight is fading to black and I nod off in spite of the wind, which is stifling, deafening and hot.

The car bounces over a pothole, and I wake to see my hand draped over the window frame, illuminated by an orange moon. I see my fingernails stained red from henna, the glint of a chunky metallic ring, my bronzed skin melting into the moonlit brown of the Adrar desert. For a moment, I don’t recognize the hand as mine.

The color on my nails is not shiny lacquered paint; the ring wrapping my fourth finger is cheap and signifies no promises; the tint of my skin is not courtesy of the Ohio sun. I think that all this – my nails, my ring, my sun-kissed existence – is ok. Just like I think that Africa is ok. Just like the dominoes of my life falling haphazardly, sometimes without my consent or intention or intervention, is ok. I am uncertain, but content with this appraisal. My shirt slaps against my arm, wind gusts through the sleeve and over my back, and this is where I should be.