And yet, I ran from him.
Bambi barks again, agitated, like,I want breakfast already!
“We’ll figure something out,” I tell Ryan, mostly so his Gram will leave it alone.
And then I make a beeline for the front door.
When I’m finally inside, I take to my room, for once reveling in its gloominess. I finish my cry in private, clutching the sweatshirt my brother gave me to my chest.
MATI
Home is a rented cottage.
A spongy sofa,
a mattress with coiled springs.
Polished appliances,
and counters of gleaming stone.
A dining table moved to the garage,
cushions dotting the floor like lily pads in a pond.
“Home is what we make it,” Mama says.
Cypress Beach is everything Kabul is not.
Green, lush, serene.
The air smells of eucalyptus and the sea.
The streets are meticulously plotted,
and the cottages carefully maintained.
The restaurants are lively,
but none sell kebabs or naan.
The shops peddle expensive wares,
but there is not a street vendor in sight.
The people here are sleek:
hair, jewelry, shoes, smiles.
Cypress Beach shines.
There is no destruction.
No signs of fatigue or failure.
There is no dust or debris.
No evidence of wars past.
