Maziuna is staring out the window again.

Shahira grasps her mother’s frail body in an awkward sideways hug. “If only you could see my life now. You would never believe it. I live in such a different world now. I think it would have been better if Monia and Mina and I stayed here, stayed with you like I wanted to. If only you hadn’t thought that marriage was the only answer.” Shahira looks at the window that has her mother’s attention. “Of course, that would mean no tribe of little boys and no Khadija. If only you could see her. She is like a little boy with all her energy and stubbornness.” Again, Shahira stares at the window that looks out over the valley.

“Khadija played in corn,” Maziuna says in a squeaky voice and Shahira stares at her mother as if this is the first time she sees her.

“What?”

“Chickie!” she shouts, and just as she says this Sahar comes in the room.

“I’m right here, Ma,” she says.

Shahira folds herself up and kisses her mother’s forehead before she leaves the room for good. Time to go, she says to herself. Time to go.

One end-of-the-summer day, not long after the old woman’s faraway daughter came to see her, the sky is glorious blue.

Not long after the minaret has called Nawara to pray for the first of five times, the old woman wakes up and waits for her daughter to wash her, to dress her in the soft white gown with the flowers embroidered around the neck, and to wrap a scarf around her head. During all these proceedings, the old woman will hold on to her daughter’s shoulders or arms, eyes wandering off.

The chores are done and the daughter brings her mother bread and yogurt and urges her to eat, and for a change the old woman obliges her, maybe hoping for some peace. After breakfast, she gets up on her own and goes to the window, where she rests her elbows, her body relaxing as the warm air pours in. Eyes start with the orange trees, whose perfume still finds its way to her window, and then move to the shepherd who is on time as he leads his goats onto the far corner of her land. She closes her eyes to make the pictures stay and then opens them again to get more.

The old woman with her head tied up in a gypsy scarf is tired today, tired like wanting to be water and stretch out in the sun. Her thoughts are interrupted by Mawal, her gentle granddaughter, who comes into the room and greets her, just as she does most mornings.

“As-salaamu alaykum, Sitti,” she says and comes over to kiss her grandmother on the hand.

The old woman stares. She likes this girl, this young lady with good manners who always smells of soap.