Occasionally, she looked up, Mariam imagined, with a look of wanting to be reassured.
But when it came to fathers, Mariam had no assurances to give. Mariam was relieved when the fighting subsided again,
mostly because they no longer had to be cooped up with Rasheed, with his sour temper infecting the household.
And he'd frightened her badly waving that loaded gun near Aziza. One day that winter, Laila asked to braid Mariam's hair.
Mariam sat still and watched Laila's slim fingers in the mirror tighten her plaits, Laila's face scrunched in concentration.
Aziza was curled up asleep on the floor. Tucked under her arm was a doll Mariam had hand stitched for her.
Mariam had stuffed it with beans, made it a dress with tea dyed fabric
and a necklace with tiny empty thread spools through which she'd threaded a string.
Then Aziza passed gas in her sleep. Laila began to laugh, and Mariam joined in.
They laughed like this, at each other's reflection in the mirror, their eyes tearing, and the moment was so natural, so effortless,
that suddenly Mariam started telling her about Jalil, and Nana, and the jinn.
Laila stood with her hands idle on Mariam's shoulders, eyes locked on Mariam's face in the mirror.
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색