My Morocco

The fountain talks to itself at night. The cat is in the lemon tree, watching Siena asleep on the daybed she is not supposed to be on. They have an agreement, the two of them, that I am not part of. I let them have it. I close the kitchen and go upstairs.

Rooftop, the minute before sunset. The cannon from the Koutoubia. Then the spoons — every house, all at once, metal on ceramic. The whole derb smells of harira for thirty seconds. Eleven Ramadans and I still come up here for it.

Bare feet, cold tiles. No fountain yet. Just the birds and the muezzin and then quiet. The courtyard is still cool from last night. Yunnan black in the chipped Hong Kong cup. The zellige goes pink at this hour. Mine for thirty more minutes, then the house wakes up.

Tuesday is communal-oven day. Two rounds of khobz on the wooden board, my initial in flour so the boy knows whose is whose. Forty minutes later he reappears with two hot loaves wrapped in a cloth, and the whole derb is the smell of bread for an hour.