She was awakened every dawn for prayer by the distant cry of azan, after which she crawled back into bed.
She was still in bed when she heard Rasheed in the bathroom, washing up, when he came into her room to check on her before he went to his shop.
From her window, she watched him in the yard, securing his lunch in the rear carrier pack of his bicycle,
then walking his bicycle across the yard and into the street.
She watched him pedal away, saw his broad, thick shouldered figure disappear around the turn at the end of the street.
For most of the days, Mariam stayed in bed, feeling adrift and forlorn.
Sometimes she went downstairs to the kitchen, ran her hands over the sticky, grease stained counter,
the vinyl, flowered curtains that smelled like burned meals.
She looked through the ill fitting drawers, at the mismatched spoons and knives, the colander and chipped, wooden spatulas,
these would be instruments of her new daily life, all of it reminding her of the havoc that had struck her life,
making her feel uprooted, displaced, like an intruder on someone else's life.
At the kolba, her appetite had been predictable. Here, her stomach rarely growled for food.
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