“I'm sorry to hear about your father. May God forgive him.” Hamza nods his thanks.
He lived to be a very old man. He outlived Jalil Khan, in fact.”
We buried him in the village cemetery, not far from where Mariam's mother is buried.”
My father was a dear, dear man, surely heaven bound.Laila lowers her cup. “May I ask you something?” “Of course.”
“Can you show me?” she says. “Where Mariam lived. Can you take me there?” The driver agrees to wait awhile longer.
Hamza and Laila exit the village and walk downhill on the road that connects Gul Daman to Herat.
After fifteen minutes or so, he points to a narrow gap in the tall grass that flanks the road on both sides.
“That's how you get there,” he says. “There is a path there.” The path is rough, winding, and dim, beneath the vegetation and undergrowth.
The wind makes the tall grass slam against Laila's calves as she and Hamza climb the path, take the turns.
On either side of them is a kaleidoscope of wildflowers swaying in the wind, some tall with curved petals, others low, fan leafed.
Here and there a few ragged buttercups peep through the low bushes.
Laila hears the twitter of swallows overhead and the busy chatter of grasshoppers underfoot.
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