But there was little pleasure in this for her. Mariam dreaded Eid, this time of hospitality and ceremony,
when families dressed in their best and visited each other. She would imagine the air in Herat crackling with merriness,
and high-spirited, bright-eyed people showering each other with endearments and goodwill.
A forlornness would descend on her like a shroud then and would lift only when Eid had passed.
This year, for the first time, Mariam saw with her eyes the Eid of her childhood imaginings.
Rasheed and she took to the streets. Mariam had never walked amid such liveliness.
Undaunted by the chilly weather, families had flooded the city on their frenetic rounds to visit relatives.
On their own street, Mariam saw Fariba and her son Noor, who was dressed in a suit.
Fariba, wearing a white scarf, walked beside a small-boned, shy-looking man with eyeglasses.
Her older son was there too. Mariam somehow remembered Fariba saying his name, Ahmad, at the tandoor that first time.
He had deep-set, brooding eyes, and his face was more thoughtful, more solemn, than his younger brother's,
a face as suggestive of early maturity as his brother's was of lingering boyishness.
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