13.
On the bus ride home from the doctor, the strangest thing was happening to Mariam.
Everywhere she looked, she saw bright colors: on the drab, gray concrete apartments,
on the tin-roofed, open-fronted stores, in the muddy water flowing in the gutters.
It was as though a rainbow had melted into her eyes. Rasheed was drumming his gloved fingers and humming a song.
Every time the bus bucked over a pothole and jerked forward, his hand shot protectively over her belly.
“What about Zalmai?” he said. “It's a good Pashtun name.” “What if it's a girl?” Mariam said.
“I think it's a boy. Yes. A boy.” A murmur was passing through the bus.
Some passengers were pointing at something and other passengers were leaning across seats to see.
“Look,” said Rasheed, tapping a knuckle on the glass. He was smiling. “There. See?”
On the streets, Mariam saw people stopping in their tracks. At traffic lights, faces emerged from the windows of cars,
turned upward toward the falling softness. What was it about a season's first snowfall, Mariam wondered, that was so entrancing?
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