She thought of what was growing there, and happiness rushed in like a gust of wind blowing a door wide open. Her eyes watered.
Mariam thought of her six hundred and fifty kilometer bus trip with Rasheed,
from Herat in the west, near the border with Iran, to Kabul in the east.
They had passed small towns and big towns, and knots of little villages that kept springing up one after another.
They had gone over mountains and across raw burned deserts, from one province to the next.
And here she was now, over those boulders and parched hills, with a home of her own, a husband of her own,
heading toward one final, cherished province: Motherhood.
How delectable it was to think of this baby, her baby, their baby.
How glorious it was to know that her love for it already dwarfed anything she had ever felt as a human being,
to know that there was no need any longer for pebble games.
Downstairs, someone was tuning a harmonium. Then the clanging of a hammer tuning a tabla.
Someone cleared his throat. And then there was whistling and clapping and yipping and singing.
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