The sky is cloudy so the morning is dark. Already it is 81˚, the high for the day, but, without the sun, it feels cooler. My neighborhood is quiet. It is as if the low clouds have dampened sound and closed in the world.

My little library has patrons. I organize, add or remove books, and I am always pleased to find books added by my readers. A couple of days ago a small bag was hanging from the library door. In it were books so I added them but took one with me to read. I too am a patron.

I never saw flowers growing in Ghana. I never saw them for sale in the market either. I figure they just weren’t a profitable crop. What is grown is sold and eaten.

My language instructor, Lawal, brought us to a market during training. It was under a roof of sorts, and all the tables were manned by women, the entrepreneurs of Ghana. I gawked as I walked in then I stopped. The smell from the tables by me was gross. I ran outside and tossed breakfast. Lawal explained that the small piles on each table where I had been were goat poop, dried and used as fuel. He didn’t understand why dried poop affected me. Poop?

I stopped noticing the gross smells; instead, I could smell the sweetness. In the morning the air was filled with the scent of wood burning. It was breakfast time in the compounds behind my house. The air was redolent. I could smell the dirt when the rain hit it. I could smell the sweetness of the ripe fruits.

I seldom missed market day, poop notwithstanding. It was every third day. I always thought it was like a fair or a carnival. I’d wander. The sounds and sights and smells were amazing and differed from aisle to aisle depending upon what was being sold. The goat poop was there, but I just walked by it. I never even noticed.

The wind came first then the rain started around 1:30 this morning. I heard it starting, but I was sleeping when it stopped. The morning is dark. The air is thick and humid. The birds are loud. The neighborhood is quiet.

I love mornings like this. The house surrounds me and protects me from the darkness and the rain. Henry feels safe and sleeps soundly. Nala sleeps in a ball on the couch. I have to step over Henry on the hall floor. He doesn’t even notice me.

Nala is studying the local flora. I’m finding thin branches on the floor and on the rugs surrounded by chewed, small pieces of the branch, formerly parts of the whole. Oak leaves were in the hall and the living room. Some were still on small branches. Nala pulls them through the dog door. I don’t notice her because I don’t monitor the comings and goings of the dogs except at night if they are out a long time. That is never a good sign.

Today is not a day to be out and about. This is July 4th weekend, the unofficial start of summer. The cape is filled with cars. Today, on a rainy day, all those people in all those cars will be looking for something to do. To many, a ride sounds appealing. I can see myself hitting the steering wheel with my fists because the car in front of me is going all of 15 or 20 in a 40 zone. I can see the passenger in the front seat pointing out stuff for the driver to see. The driver slows to gawk then moves a bit before he slows again and gawks again. Meanwhile, the kids are fighting in the back seat. I will stay home today. Let the gawking begin!

I have always written lists of sorts even when I was a kid. When I was working and had little time, I usually wrote to-do lists and completed every item on those lists every week. Now, with all the time in the world, I never finish all the items on any of my lists. I do get close, and I tell myself close counts. I wish I believed it. I thought about leaving lists in the past, but I can’t. They are part of my psyche.