Water evaporates from the leaves—Mammy, did you know?—the way it does from laundry hanging from a line.
And that drives the flow of water up the tree.”
From the ground and through the roots, then all the way up the tree trunk, through the branches and into the leaves. It's called transpiration.”
More than once, Laila had wondered what the Taliban would do about Kaka Zaman's clandestine lessons if they found out.
During visits, Aziza didn't allow for much silence. She filled all the spaces with effusive speech, delivered in a high, ringing voice.
She was tangential with her topics, and her hands gesticulated wildly, flying up with a nervousness that wasn't like her at all.
She had a new laugh, Aziza did. Not so much a laugh, really, as nervous punctuation, meant, Laila suspected, to reassure.
And there were other changes. Laila would notice the dirt under Aziza's fingernails,
and Aziza would notice her noticing and bury her hands under her thighs.
Whenever a kid cried in their vicinity, snot oozing from his nose,
or if a kid walked by bare assed, hair clumped with dirt, Aziza's eyelids fluttered and she was quick to explain it away.
She was like a hostess embarrassed in front of her guests by the squalor of her home, the untidiness of her children.
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