She feels the weight of the backpack as she walks steadily under the gaze of Persian pyramids, holding a map that points to nowhere in particular—perhaps to a noisy market or another crowded street. She looks at the strangers working around her and wonders about their life. How many kids do they have? Where do they live? What is their mother like? Do they like dogs?
She inhales the air thick with sweat, goat manure, and humdrum labor. And she exhales her freedom.
Nobody here likes to speak English. Some Farsi words are too ancient and lenghty to pronounce all in one breath, so she doesn't speak at all, reveling in the homely boisterousness of the people's domestic routine.
Where would she go from here? Her steps are calculated, her fingers snapping subconsciously as they are wont to do when she gets nervous.
It feels like summer. Maybe, maybe it is.
You come to me, running with tears in your eyes and your arms longing to embrace me my hands, shaking drenched in blood, touch you for the f...
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