She sat on the chair instead, hands limp in her lap, eyes staring at nothing, and let her mind fly on.
She let it fly on until it found the place, the good and safe place, where the barley fields were green,
where the water ran clear and the cottonwood seeds danced by the thousands in the air;
where Babi was reading a book beneath an acacia and Tariq was napping with his hands laced across his chest,
and where she could dip her feet in the stream and dream good dreams beneath the watchful gaze of gods of ancient, sun-bleached rock.
29. Mariam
“I'm so sorry,” Rasheed said to the girl, taking his bowl of masiawa and meatballs from Mariam without looking at her.
“I know you were very close... friends... the two of you. Always together, since you were kids.”
“It's a terrible thing, what's happened. Too many young Afghan men are dying this way.”
He motioned impatiently with his hand, still looking at the girl, and Mariam passed him a napkin.
For years, Mariam had looked on as he ate, the muscles of his temples churning, one hand making compact little rice balls,
the back of the other wiping grease, swiping stray grains, from the corners of his mouth.
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