© Hailey Christensen
My house is surrounded by friends above and below, to the left and the right. Here the houses are stacked like cardboard boxes, balancing one on top of another. Each home is a different color—some are yellow like passionfruit and the midday sun, others blue like a cloudless summer sky. I helped my pai—my father—build our own baked orange walls myself. Hollow clay brick, cement, repeat. We left space for a window or two and topped the four walls with sheets of tin. When it rains, each raindrop hits the metal with a ting, sounding like the beat to a samba song. Outsiders call it a favela—a ghetto—but we call it home.
Down the hill there
is a single mango tree. The branches closest to the ground are bare, the fruit
snatched by those who came before me. When I am lucky, I can spot a forgotten
mango nestled away, a green gem hidden amongst the emerald leaves. I bring the
mangoes home to my pai, and we snack on the slices after our dinner of
rice and beans. Sweet juice dribbles down our chins.
When it grows dark, the
neighborhood comes alive with music and laughter and footsteps, the noise
lasting late into the night. There is no sleep here. My father and I sit on our
doorstep listening as the dogs join in, their barks adding to the familiar
cacophony. The windows in our neighbor’s homes are lit up, making the hillside
twinkle like the night sky.
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