Sunday, February 14, 2010

I am Colours.
The sidewalks are cracked. Like tiny spider webs, they spread against the concrete like fingers, reaching toward the buildings and the street, alike. The air is a sickening mix of exhaust fumes and chili peppers, where if you haven’t been there for a long, your eyes will water. Hispanic flags hang from windows, Puerto Rican on these two streets and Dominican two streets over, the Brazilian flags with their anonymous Portuguese in between to keep the chaos from erupting.
Lawns are like patch-work: brown and yellow with a random splotch of green that survived the lack of watering. Every other garage is a grease monkey. Four or five cars, missing engines, or brakes, or radios, sit, like silent veterans- no longer useful.
There’s always music, or laughter, or both. TV’s echo through open windows, domestic disputes made public on front lawns. It’s always loud here, and always bright. Streetlights shine domes of yellow on parked cars, and light the sky up to a navy blue, never black.
It’s blistering hot, to the point where the sidewalk burns underneath feet. Air conditioners crank in some houses, windows and doors sealed shut. In others, windows and doors stand wide open, catching any breeze they can. The occasional opened hydrant sends violent sprays across the street, leaving pools of water for cars to drive through, and kids to run through.
This neighborhood has pride, it’s tangible. You can reach out, and grab it- right from the threads of the flags; right from the blades of the grass.

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