growing red and congested, her hand squeezing her burning throat as she cried: ‘Mother, my throat hurts and I am almost choking!..’”
A great lump of pain began pressing on her throat and rising with her breath, and there broke from her an aching moan that shook her; and before her husband could raise his handkerchief, her pent-up tears came streaming down her cheeks, falling like rain longed for by the belly of the earth ...
*
She pressed her eyelids tighter shut against the sunbeams of the feast day, for she wanted nothing of the feast, its gladness, or its ringing. She had loved it when it brought joy and laughter to the one who had given her joy and laughter — not rigid and bleak, reminding her of the one who had gone before the feast could meet her, or she it.
“Khulud ... why do you not come in to me with the feast's joy in your hands and its radiance in your eyes? And your new dress, which you hung up with your own hand and made swear to stay in the wardrobe and wait to see what you would do with it? You have put on earth in its place, and the grave has lain down upon you, cold and heavy, denying you light and breath ...”
Talking to herself horrified her, and the truth frightened her, so she fled in alarm to her husband's corner, seeking escape — but where had he gone? From the window she saw him going about the garden flowers with water, touching them with eagerness and
gentleness.. She went out into the garden, pressing on her head to smother a heavy, aching pain in it, and stood beside her husband, silent and at a loss..
— A blessed feast to you, Najwa..
The kiss fell on her cheek; she smiled faintly and said:
— And to you, Rashid ...
Then she said again, gloomily:
— I hate these flowers: they did not die as she did, and they are still dewy and fresh.. Oh, Rashid, how did the feast dare to come while she is in the belly of the earth? ..
— Do you hate the flowers whose fragrance she used to breathe in the morning, and around which she skipped at evening and at nightfall? Strange! Do you hate these faithful roses that submit to the shears and consent to burn slowly under the sun so as to wreathe her grave and keep it company? As for the feast — welcome to the voice of God, and welcome to the mercy of heaven!..
A great shame came over her, and she whispered, her voice like a breath:
— I am sorry, Rashid. Pain has wrapped me in selfishness and filled me with hatred for every living thing that breathes.. For God's sake, let us go out today, anywhere outside the house — the loneliness is tightening its grip on my throat!.
And seeing how deep was the anguish that withered her, he pressed her to him hard, tender and anxious, and said:
— Come, my darling — to any place you wish ...
*
Nature wiped her brow with a handful of gentle breeze, and she relaxed, easy of soul, and leaned on her husband's arm, watching the bright green and the clear blue, and amid them the silence and the calm; and her thoughts began to slip away from her and rest ...
— Najwa, what are you thinking of?
The sudden question startled her, and she murmured:
— Truly, I am thinking of nothing in particular ... and I feel ease now, and peace ...
— Come, let us talk; talk in the presence of Nature is beautiful. Let us consider some particular matter — such as hearing the warbling of a child once more in our house, for instance. What do you say to that?
She moistened her dry lips and said faintly:
— Do you mean another woman's child, Rashid?
He took her hands in his and looked long into her eyes before saying:
— That is exactly what I mean. We adopt a child whose heart the hunger of orphanhood has gnawed, so that love has become more needful to him than food; or we take to ourselves a little body wasted by poverty, and he will be with us and ours, though he be not of us! In God's name, say yes, Najwa?
— But so quickly — when a year has not yet passed since her death?