How much could I reveal? But I was lonely. Not one person in my family knew how I felt. Not one person knew why. My distress was trapped in my throat like something I could neither choke down nor spit out.
“I come to the orchard when there’s something I want to avoid. Or when there’s something I want to think about . . . something private.” His voice dropped off at the end. I kept my eyes on the grass. I didn’t want to see his face or any other part of him. In this moment, the unsure rises and falls of his voice were all that I needed.
“My father loves the orchard enough to do his dawn prayers here. He believes his prayers nourish the trees, but it’s probably the other way around,” I said. “He empties his heart to these trees, to their branches and roots, and in return they sweeten his mouth with their fruits. In the afternoons, the orchard is mine. My siblings are too afraid to come this far out into the trees.”
“Some people fear what they cannot see.”
“I have seen and there’s nothing to fear here. It’s beyond this orchard that frightens me.” Again, there was a pause.
“You were reading Ibrahim Khalil last time.”
I was surprised. Indeed, I had been. My reading skills had improved tremendously, and I was now studying the writings of contemporary Afghan poets.
“Yes, actually.”
“Why?”
Why? A question that I couldn’t eloquently answer. There was something powerful about the clarity and conciseness of the lyrics. How amazing to condense the profoundest of thoughts into a few lines, to boil them down and mold them into an enchanting rhyming package. I loved picking those packages apart, like unwrapping a gift meant only for me and deciphering the lines.
“He is a compass,” I explained, finally. “There are days when I sleep and wake with a dilemma. I can think and think on it and not know up from down. But more than once, I’ve read his words and then . . . I don’t know how to say it. It’s almost as if he has written answers to questions I never asked him.”
“Hmm.”
Did he think me ridiculous?
“That’s how I see it,” I added. I felt my face blush.
“Can I tell you one of my favorites?”
I nodded. He cleared his throat and began to recite. I recognized the poem as one I’d bookmarked and underlined.
As you tread to the temple of your supreme pursuit
A hundred peaks may hinder your route
With the hatchet of persistence, conquer each
And bring your aspirations within your reach
Yes, I thought, looking at the skyline and seeing the hundred mountain peaks that separated Kabul from the rest of the world. There was quiet as the simple words made the distance between us thin and meaningless. The verse he’d chosen made me feel he knew every thought I’d dare not share with others. He had put a gentle arm around me. It was my first experience with intimacy, both rousing and frightening.
“That is a beautiful poem,” I said finally. “Thank you.” I wished him a good day and slowly returned to the house, feeling my throat thicken and not wanting to cry in his presence. I’d revealed enough today.
I ran back into the house, passing KokoGul on my way up the stairs. She was hemming a skirt and barely looked up.
“Fall and break your leg and see who will carry you around. Act your age!”
A FEW DAYS LATER, KOKOGUL RECEIVED THE CALL SHE’D BEEN awaiting. The Firoozes had made their intentions clear and official. KokoGul was delighted, as if she herself were being courted instead of me.