The Milk of Birds by Sylvia Whitman Read Free Book Online Page B

sings along to me.
    The blue-eyed girl next to me is Emily. We’ve been friends since second grade—well, my second second grade. She was the only good thing about getting left back. Isn’t her face a perfect heart? It doesn’t seem fair that someone can be so smart and so pretty at the same time, but Emily complains that people always take her for a dumb blonde. I’m the smart brunette because of the glasses. Ha. At least Emily gets lots of cavities.
    Love, K. C.

Nawra
    J UNE 2008
    â€œYou must take care of your health, Nawra, now more than ever,” Saida Julie says. Her hands hold my hands, and their warmth brings my tears.
    Adeeba says, “This crazy girl spends her money on everyone but herself. She gives away demuria cloth as if she were queen of the land of cotton.”
    Adeeba has no shame. Adeeba tells me I am too shy, but she is not shy enough.
    â€œShe is still collecting firewood for her mother,” Adeeba says.
    â€œMy mother can hardly walk,” I say.
    â€œI remember you carried her here,” says Saida Julie. The way she says that makes me feel as if I have done something right. I stand a little taller, as I used to do under my mother’s words.
    â€œYou cannot buy wood?” asks Saida Noor.
    â€œIt has become very expensive,” says Adeeba. “Everyone wants bricks, or wants to make money making bricks, and brickmakers dry mud by the fire. And everyone needs to cook. So wood is harder to find.”
    â€œWhen we drive, we can tell we are nearing a camp because the land has been stripped bare,” says Saida Julie. “So many people put a strain on the land.” Then she asks me, “How do you cook?”
    â€œBadly!” Adeeba says.
    Saida Noor laughs.
    â€œShe has some really good recipes for grass,” Adeeba says.
    â€œStop!” says Saida Noor. She translates for Saida Julie again. “Your mother cooks for your family? The usual way—a fire within three stones?”
    I nod.
    â€œThere are new stoves that hold the heat tight, so they need less wood, and the smoke does not swarm around the cook,” Saida Noor says. “Also children cannot fall into the fire.”
    That happened years ago to the son of my uncle. Even though his mother wrapped his leg with herbs, it pained him for many months. For all she said she did not like to look at his scar, Meriem could not keep her eyes away from the dark and crumpled skin.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    It is one thing to stumble into a cookfire, another to escape from a burning hut. I remember how carefully we unrolled Saha from the rug in which we had wrapped her. Her skin bubbled where the flames had licked her arms and back.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Adeeba nudges me.
    â€œThese stoves are not as expensive as you would think,” says Saida Noor. “They are made from dung and mud. Engineers are coming to work on the wells. You must ask them about stoves.”
    Behind us, other girls are waiting. I turn, but Saida Noor says, “Wait. We have something for you.”
    An envelope.

    In the name of God, the Merciful and Compassionate
    28 June 2008
    Dear K. C.,
    Peace be upon you. How are you? Are you strong? How are you? And your health? How is your mother? How is your father and his second wife? Remember to respect the ones who saw the sun before you. How is your brother? How are you? Inshallah , you are all strong.
    Adeeba is scolding, but how can I skip my greetings when I know your people now? Surely your writing machine is not as rude as this girl who is my scribe!
    Your letter is so beautiful, the words all in a row. They remind me of the rocks my sister Saha used to collect. She was always arranging them, sometimes by color, sometimes by size. Did you paint the mountains and trees on the paper? I think not; they are too smooth. Adeeba tells me the white on top is snow. When I run my finger over it, I can feel the cold.