7

     A couple I know invites me to a little get-together in their backyard. I never know what to bring to these things, so on the way over I pick up a key lime pie. There have a guest staying with them, a visiting writer from Philly.

            Our hosts recently returned from camping in the nature reserves of Namibia. Because of its small population, there is hardly any light pollution there, and as a result the stars are astoundingly bright, the Milky Way smeared across the night sky. Over orzo salad and a rainbow of salsas, they share photos from their trip; stunning shots of elands and hartebeests, giraffes with their necks entwined.

A cluster of new houses are being crammed into the lot next door. Our hosts talk about how dismayed they are about them, then go back to discussing Africa with its enormous insects and thatch huts and apartheid. We look at pictures of oryxes, gemsboks, kudu. Birds called sociable weavers build enormous, shaggy nests with dozens of chambers in the branches of the acacias and quiver trees which rise above the savanna. These nests can last a hundred years or more, constantly being added to and repaired by generation after generation of weavers. We sit in the shade beside the garden as the cat rolls around in the cool grass. Since I’m the one who brought it, I am asked to slice the key lime pie. The writer laughs and says, “The first piece is always hardest.” Sure enough, I make an utter mess of it.