But Laila knew that her future was no match for her brothers' past. They had overshadowed her in life. They would obliterate her in death.
Mammy was now the curator of their lives' museum and she, Laila, a mere visitor.
A receptacle for their myths. The parchment on which Mammy meant to ink their legends.
“The messenger who came with the news, he said that when they brought the boys back to camp,”
“Ahmad Shah Massoud personally oversaw the burial. He said a prayer for them at the gravesite.”
“That's the kind of brave young men your brothers were, Laila,”
“that Commander Massoud himself, the Lion of Panjshir, God bless him, would oversee their burial.”
Mammy rolled onto her back. Laila shifted, rested her head on Mammy's chest.
“Some days,” Mammy said in a hoarse voice, “I listen to that clock ticking in the hallway.”
“Then I think of all the ticks, all the minutes, all the hours and days and weeks and months and years waiting for me.”
“All of it without them. And I can't breathe then, like someone's stepping on my heart, Laila.”
“I get so weak. So weak I just want to collapse somewhere.”
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