Outside, mockingbirds were singing blithely, and, once in a while, when the songsters took flight,
Mariam could see their wings catching the phosphorescent blue of moonlight beaming through the clouds.
And though her throat was parched with thirst and her feet burned with pins and needles,
it was a long time before Mariam gently freed her finger from the baby's grip and got up.
34. Laila
Of all earthly pleasures, Laila's favorite was lying next to Aziza, her baby's face so close that she could watch her big pupils dilate and shrink.
Laila loved running her finger over Aziza's pleasing, soft skin, over the dimpled knuckles, the folds of fat at her elbows.
Sometimes she lay Aziza down on her chest and whispered into the soft crown of her head things about Tariq,
the father who would always be a stranger to Aziza, whose face Aziza would never know.
Laila told her of his aptitude for solving riddles, his trickery and mischief, his easy laugh.
“He had the prettiest lashes, thick like yours. A good chin, a fine nose, and a round forehead.”
“Oh, your father was handsome, Aziza. He was perfect. Perfect, like you are.”
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