“Mariam. What did I say to you about the crying?”
The next morning, after Rasheed left for work, Mariam unpacked her clothes and put them in the dresser.
She drew a pail of water from the well and, with a rag, washed the windows of her room and the windows to the living room downstairs.
She swept the floors, beat the cobwebs fluttering in the corners of the ceiling.
She opened the windows to air the house. She set three cups of lentils to soak in a pot,
found a knife and cut some carrots and a pair of potatoes, left them too to soak.
She searched for flour, found it in the back of one of the cabinets behind a row of dirty spice jars,
and made fresh dough, kneading it the way Nana had shown her,
pushing the dough with the heel of her hand, folding the outer edge, turning it, and pushing it away again.
Once she had floured the dough, she wrapped it in a moist cloth, put on a hijab, and set out for the communal tandoor.
Rasheed had told her where it was, down the street, a left then a quick right,
but all Mariam had to do was follow the flock of women and children who were headed the same way.
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