I chased the sun back in time, riding a planetary wind I thought I would never catch. What found me there was the perfume of an otherworldly rose garden, and a language I instinctively understood; I had regressed. Then dust. When my ummi saw bibi squat on the floor, she screamed and screamed and screamed. 30 years later or 30 years past, the muscles had hardened, the cancer had gathered and the wrinkles bunched together like so many sand dunes, but as I leaned in closer, I swooned with the waft of soft maternal powder.
They took me to Chah-e Anjir, where I was relieved at the sight of so much green. We climbed the roofs and laughed as we devoured juicy anar from the orchard, fingers stained crimson. The local kin stole an infant beza from the neighbours and handed it to me; I lay in a dust mote sun for the rest of the day cooing with my baby.
They took me to Q’ali Bost where I found a quarry of stars, still burning faintly from their distant homes. A grand arch embraced me and we took a spiral staircase around a well, down, down, down, into the dark beginning vestiges of its creation. Obscure spirits and sombre demurs around every corner, I felt ensconced within an ancient crib.
These journeys, lost and found, populated by resilient souls clad in blue, or true hungry lost spirits. I felt all of their translucent pigeon eyes on me, and finally, they chased us out, leaning forward against the ebb of time, gasping as we settled into our painfully nostalgic escape. Lashkar-gah nearly diffused into me whole, consuming with sweetness and despair.
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PHOTO ESSAY:
MARYAM NOORZAI
CANADA