A Thousand Splendid Suns

children clutching balloon strings.
* * *
Laila likes Mukree'S cool, foggy mornings and its dazzling twilights, the
dark brilliance of the sky at night; the green of the pines and the soft
brown of the squirrels darting up and down the sturdy tree trunks; the
sudden downpours that send shoppers in the Mall scrambling for awning
cover. She likes the souvenir shops, and the various hotels that house
tourists, even as the locals bemoan the constant construction, the
expansion of infrastructure that they say is eating away at Murree's
natural beauty. Laila finds it odd that people should lament the building
of buildings. In Kabul, they would celebrate it.
She likes that they have a bathroom, not an outhouse but an actual
bathroom, with a toilet that flushes, a shower, and a sink too, with twin
faucets from which she can draw, with a flick of her wrist, water, either
hot or cold. She likes waking up to the sound of Alyona bleating in the
morning, and the harmlessly cantankerous cook, Adiba, who works
marvels in the kitchen.
Sometimes, as Laila watches Tariq sleep, as her children mutter and
stir in their own sleep, a great big lump of gratitude catches in her
throat, makes her eyes water.
In the mornings, Laila follows Tariq from room to room. Keys jingle
from a ring clipped to his waist and a spray bottle of window cleaner
dangles from the belt loops of his jeans. Laila brings a pail filled with
rags, disinfectant, a toilet brush, and spray wax for the dressers. Aziza