Jalil never called Mariam this name. Jalil said she was his little flower.
He was fond of sitting her on his lap and telling her stories, like the time he told her that Herat,
the city where Mariam was born, in 1959, had once been the cradle of Persian culture, the home of writers, painters, and Sufis.
“You couldn't stretch a leg here without poking a poet in the ass,” he laughed.
Jalil told her the story of Queen Gauhar Shad, who had raised the famous minarets as her loving ode to Herat back in the fifteenth century.
He described to her the green wheat fields of Herat, the orchards, the vines pregnant with plump grapes, the city's crowded, vaulted bazaars.
“There is a pistachio tree,” Jalil said one day, “and beneath it, Mariam jo, is buried none other than the great poet Jami.”
He leaned in and whispered, “Jami lived over five hundred years ago. He did.”
“I took you there once, to the tree. You were little. You wouldn't remember.”
It was true. Mariam didn't remember.
And though she would live the first fifteen years of her life within walking distance of Herat, Mariam would never see this storied tree.
She would never see the famous minarets up close, and she would never pick fruit from Herat's orchards or stroll in its fields of wheat.
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