I miss the smell of burning trash. I miss the wind, hot on my face.
I miss the thorns getting caught between my toes or stuck in my heels.
I miss the tiny brown and yellow birds flying from tree to tree on the dirt road between Mbolo’s
I miss the henna fading on my palms and fingernails.
I look at my thumbnail… There is only the faintest glow of orange on the tip. The last remaining memory of Tabaski henna. My constant reminder of tradition. Of heritage. Of festivities long past. Now it too is gone. Enough time has past that even my body has since forgotten the grating of sand under my feet, the rough handle of the hoe rubbing blisters into my palms, the strings of my wrap skirt digging into my middle, the particles of sand blowing into my eyes, the feeling of sitting flat on the plastic woven mat on the ground, the tightening of my back stooping over to sweep my patio. My feet no longer flip the flip flop, tap tap against my heels. My toes no longer curl away in fear of thorns after brushing against a blade of grass. The creases between my eyes from squinting in the glaring sun have smoothed. My ankles are no longer embarrassed to show themselves in public. My arm hair is no longer a spectacle to every child who dares to come near enough. My clothing is no longer stiff with starch, forcing me into perfect posture. My steps are no longer quick and small, constricted by skirts. Beads of sweat no longer creep down my back or escape out of the creases of my elbows. There is no head scarf protecting my hair and shading my face, firmly reminding me of my safety through decency and allowing me a feeling of protection and blanket of security. My skirts no longer hang long, covering my shape for decency but simultaneously accenting my femininity. I am naked now. My head is prey for the elements – the wind and the rain and the sun tormenting my skull. My clothes are soft and malleable, no longer keeping me upright and solid. My legs are now vulnerable for all to observe and critique and compare.
Dana's Life in Senegal 