It says I must send you where I will soon join you myself. Do you understand, hamshira?”
Mariam looked down at her hands. She said she did. “May Allah forgive you.”
Before they led her out, Mariam was given a document, told to sign beneath her statement and the mullah's sentence.
As the three Taliban watched, Mariam wrote it out, her name the meem, the reh, the yah, and the meem
remembering the last time she'd signed her name to a document, twenty seven years before, at Jalil's table, beneath the watchful gaze of another mullah.
Mariam spent ten days in prison. She sat by the window of the cell, watched the prison life in the courtyard.
When the summer winds blew, she watched bits of scrap paper ride the currents in a frenzied, corkscrew motion,
as they were hurled this way and that, high above the prison walls.
She watched the winds stir mutiny in the dust, whipping it into violent spirals that ripped through the courtyard.
Everyone, the guards, the inmates, the children, Mariam, burrowed their faces in the hook of their elbows, but the dust would not be denied.
It made homes of ear canals and nostrils, of eyelashes and skin folds, of the space between molars.
Only at dusk did the winds die down. And then if a night breeze blew, it did so timidly, as if to atone for the excesses of its daytime sibling.
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