The grief kept surprising Mariam. All it took to unleash it was her thinking of the unfinished crib in the toolshed,
or the suede coat in Rasheed's closet. The baby came to life then and she could hear it, could hear its hungry grunts,
its gurgles and jabbering. She felt it sniffing at her breasts. The grief washed over her, swept her up, tossed her upside down.
Mariam was dumbfounded that she could miss in such a crippling manner a being she had never even seen.
Then there were days when the dreariness didn't seem quite as unrelenting to Mariam.
Days when the mere thought of resuming the old patterns of her life did not seem so exhausting,
when it did not take enormous efforts of will to get out of bed, to do her prayers, to do the wash, to make meals for Rasheed.
Mariam dreaded going outside. She was envious, suddenly, of the neighborhood women and their wealth of children.
Some had seven or eight and didn't understand how fortunate they were,
how blessed that their children had flourished in their wombs, lived to squirm in their arms and take the milk from their breasts.
Children that they had not bled away with soapy water and the bodily filth of strangers down some bathhouse drain.
Mariam resented them when she overheard them complaining about misbehaving sons and lazy daughters.
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