The Blood of Flowers Read Free Page B

courtyard. I remembered how on our last walk, he had taken me to see a carving of an ancient goddess that was hidden behind a waterfall. We had inched our way along a ledge until we found the carving under the flow of water. The goddess wore a tall crown that seemed to be filled with clouds. Her shapely bosom was covered by a thin drapery, and she wore a necklace of large stones. You could not see her feet; her clothing seemed to swirl into waves and streams. She stretched out her powerful arms, as big as any man's, which looked as if they were conjuring the waterfall at will.
    My father had been tired that day, but he had marched up the steep trails to the waterfall, panting, to show me that wondrous sight. His breath sounded even more labored now; it crackled as it left his body. His hands were beginning to move, too, like small, restless mice. They crawled up his chest and scratched at his tunic. His long fingers were brown from working in the fields, and there was a line of dirt under the nails that he would have removed before entering the house, had he been well.
    "I promise to devote myself to tending to him, if only You will leave him with us," I whispered to God. "I'll say my prayers every day, and I will never complain about how hungry I am during the fasting month of Ramazan, even silently."
    My father began clutching at the air, as if he were fighting his illness with the only part of his body that still had vigor. Kolsoom joined us by the bedroll and led us in prayers, while we watched my father's hands and listened to his anguished breath. I told my mother how tired he had seemed during our walk in the mountains, and asked if it had weakened him. She put her hands on either side of my face and replied, "Light of my eyes, it probably gave him strength."
    In the blackest hour of the night, my father's breathing quieted and his hands stopped doing battle. As my mother arranged the blanket over him, her face looked calmer.
    "He will get some rest now," she said with satisfaction.
    I went into the courtyard, which adjoined our neighbor's house, to bring more tea to Ibrahim. He had moved to a cushion near my turquoise carpet, which was unfinished on my loom. My mother had recently sold the carpet to a traveling silk merchant named Hassan, who was planning to return later to claim it. But the source of the turquoise dye that had pleased Hassan's eyes was still a tender subject between me and my father, and my face flushed with shame when I remembered how my visit alone to Ibrahim's dye house had troubled him.
    I returned to the vigil at my father's side. Perhaps this terrible night was nearly over, and daylight would bring a joyful surprise, like the sight of my father's eyes opening, or of him being able to swallow his medicine. And then, one day when he was better, we would take another walk in the mountains and sing together. Nothing would be sweeter to me than hearing him sing out of tune.
    Toward morning, with no other sound than Ibrahim's river of prayers, I felt my eyelids grow heavy. I don't know how much time passed before I awoke, observed that my father's face was still calm, then fell asleep again. At dawn, I was comforted by the sound of sparrows breaking the silence with their noisy calls. They sounded like the birds we had heard on our walk, and I began dreaming about how we had stopped to watch them gather twigs for their nests.
    A wheeled cart creaked outside, and I awoke with a start. People were beginning to emerge from their homes to begin their chores at the well, in the mountains, or in the fields. Ibrahim was still saying prayers, but his voice was dry and hoarse. My mother was lighting an oil lamp, which she placed near the bedroll. My father had not moved since he had fallen asleep. She peered at his face and placed her fingers under his nostrils to feel his breath. They lingered there, trembling, before they drifted down to his slack mouth. Still searching, they returned to his nose and