Someone has spray painted something on one of the walls, but much of it has sloughed off, and Laila cannot decipher what it says.
Then she realizes the letters are Russian.
There is a deserted bird's nest in one corner and a bat hanging upside down in another corner, where the wall meets the low ceiling.
Laila closes her eyes and sits there awhile. In Pakistan, it was difficult sometimes to remember the details of Mariam's face.
There were times when, like a word on the tip of her tongue, Mariam's face eluded her.
But now, here in this place, it's easy to summon Mariam behind the lids of her eyes:
the soft radiance of her gaze, the long chin, the coarsened skin of her neck, the tight lipped smile.
Here, Laila can lay her cheek on the softness of Mariam's lap again, can feel Mariam swaying back and forth,
reciting verses from the Koran, can feel the words vibrating down Mariam's body, to her knees, and into her own ears.
Then, suddenly, the weeds begin to recede, as if something is pulling them by the roots from beneath the ground.
They sink lower and lower until the earth in the kolba has swallowed the last of their spiny leaves. The spider webs magically unpin themselves.
The bird's nest self disassembles, the twigs snapping loose one by one, flying out of the kolba end over end.
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색