painted in gleaming white. On it, with a brush, Zaman has written four lines of poetry, his
answer, Laila knows, to those who grumble that the promised aid money to Afghanistan
isn't coming, that the rebuilding is going too slowly, that there is corruption, that the
Taliban are regrouping already and will come back with a vengeance, that the world will
forget once again about Afghanistan. The lines are from his favorite of Hafez's ghazals:
Joseph shall return to Canaan, grieve not, Hovels shall turn to rose gardens, grieve not. If
a flood should arrive, to drown all that's alive, Noah is your guide in the typhoon's eye,
grieve not
Laila passes beneath the sign and enters the classroom. The children are taking their seats,
flipping notebooks open, chattering Aziza is talking to a girl in the adjacent row. A paper
airplane floats across the room in a high arc. Someone tosses it back.
"Open your Farsi books, children," Laila says, dropping her own books on her desk.
To a chorus of flipping pages, Laila makes her way to the curtainless window. Through
the glass, she can see the boys in the playground lining up to practice their free throws.
Above them, over the mountains, the morning sun is rising. It catches the metallic rim of
the basketball hoop, the chain link of the tire swings, the whistle hanging around Zaman's
neck, his new, unchipped spectacles. Laila flattens her palms against the warm glass panes.
Closes her eyes. She lets the sunlight fall on her cheeks, her eyelids, her brow.
When they first came back to Kabul, it distressed Laila that she didn't know where the
Taliban had buried Mariam. She wished she could visit Mariam's grave, to sit with her
awhile, leave a flower or two. But Laila sees now that it doesn't matter. Mariam is never
very far. She is here, in these walls they've repainted, in the trees they've planted, in the
blankets that keep the children warm, in these pillows and books and pencils. She is in the
children's laughter. She is in the verses Aziza recites and in the prayers she mutters when
she bows westward. But, mostly, Mariam is in Laila's own heart, where she shines with the
bursting radiance of a thousand suns.
Someone has been calling her name, Laila realizes. She turns around, instinctively tilts her
head, lifting her good ear just a tad. It's Aziza.
"Mammy? Are you all right?"
The room has become quiet. The children are watching her.
Laila is about to answer when her breath suddenly catches. Her hands shoot down. They
pat the spot where, a moment before, she'd felt a wave go through her. She waits. But there
is no more movement.
"Mammy?"
"Yes, my love." Laila smiles. "I'm all right. Yes. Very much."
As she walks to her desk at the front of the class, Laila thinks of the naming game they'd