That winter, everywhere Laila turned, walls blocked her way. She thought longingly of the wide open skies of her childhood,
of her days of going to buzkashi tournaments with Babi and shopping at Mandaii with Mammy,
of her days of running free in the streets and gossiping about boys with Giti and Hasina.
Her days of sitting with Tariq in a bed of clover on the banks of a stream somewhere, trading riddles and candy, watching the sun go down.
But thinking of Tariq was treacherous because, before she could stop, she saw him lying on a bed, far from home, tubes piercing his burned body.
Like the bile that kept burning her throat these days, a deep, paralyzing grief would come rising up Laila's chest.
Her legs would turn to water. She would have to hold on to something.
Laila passed that winter of 1992 sweeping the house, scrubbing the pumpkin-colored walls of the bedroom she shared with Rasheed,
washing clothes outside in a big copper lagoon. Sometimes she saw herself as if hovering above her own body,
saw herself squatting over the rim of the lagoon, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, pink hands wringing soapy water from one of Rasheed's undershirts.
She felt lost then, casting about, like a shipwreck survivor, no shore in sight, only miles and miles of water.
When it was too cold to go outside, Laila ambled around the house.
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