The little Persian girl…Days of December #3

Where does this door lead

 

When i see this I think of being able to step through some portal to another place and changing things that were painful, but if that were the case…i would not be the me I am today

 

She must have been just shy of 7 or 8, standing in a filthy gutter washing clothes with stagnant water and a rock.

When I stopped she looked up at me then immediately looked back down. That brief moment was very defining in my heart.

Her eyes were deep set and crossed. The most beautiful black lashes blinked briefly as a fly landed on her dirty nose. The only thing I could see was her upper lip, nose and eyes as the chador was draped properly about her head and folded at cheek bone and  held together in her mouth by her own bite.

She continued to wash clothes and wring them out, piling them up. She looked up enough to see my feet near her and with her head down she shooed me away with her hand.

I knew enough to walk away lest she be beaten for looking up at anyone, however I was intrigued. I went around the corner where my brother was and i turned back and watched her. An older woman, dressed as the girl was, walked up with a basket of clothes. She laid the garments on the ground next to the girl, then picked up the washed clothes and put them in the basket.

Before walking away the older woman looked around then she spoke, still biting her chador. As quickly as the woman came, she left but not before opening her chador and slipping a piece of naan to the child.

The girl grabbed her chador cloth and held it together at the mouth. She slipped the naan into her mouth and chewed, swallowed and re-bit the fabric.

What I saw when the chador opened briefly was one of her legs, deformed. I covered my mouth as I gasped and my heart changed forever in that two second window.

Over the next year or so, before moving I saw this beautiful little girl several more times until the day I saw the older woman carrying the lifeless body of this child, weeping with such sorrow as I had never experienced. My brother’s friend translated the cries of this woman…

“Who killed my child? Who killed my child? Allah will not be merciful with your life!”

I stepped over the deep gutter for the first time that day after the woman moved on. I knelt down and traced my finger in two drops of blood and drew a heart on the brick the little Persian girl laid the wrung out clothes on.

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