She complies, dubious,
mapping me with her stare.
I pour the cool grains from my hands to hers.
I wave an open palm over the sand she holds
and say, “The people of my country.”
She nods, bright-eyed.
I brace her cupped hands with one of mine.
I only mean to hold them steady,
but her soft skin makes my breath falter.
I rob a few grains from the wealth she holds.
They nest among the whorls of my fingertip.
I show them to her.
“These are Afghans who are bad,” I say.
“They twist Allah’s words,
and use the Quran to justify violence.”
I blow the sand from my finger;
it finds the wind and sails away.
“The Taliban, al-Qaeda,
others who harbor extreme beliefs…
they are not true Afghans,
or faithful Muslims—
not in my eyes.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, reflecting.
Then, in her sweet voice she says,
“Thank you for showing me.”
And I know… she is genuine.
elise
A new day.
Mati can’t come to the beach this morning; his father has a medical appointment in San Jose, an hour north. His doctors have scans to run and progress to share, and Mati’s mother wants to be there, so Mati will go, too. He told me all this yesterday, after he filled my hands with sand, restructuring the framework I’ve regarded as truth since Nick died. We’ve made plans to meet later, though, at Van Dough’s.
Ryan catches Bambi and me as we’re headed out the gate toward the ocean. “Find your lip balm?” he asks, falling into step beside me.
