Sometimes I conjure images of my late husband R. I try to imagine what will be my reaction the minute I see him? I will rush forward, and envelope him in a great big hug.
While traveling back from the village to Peshawar, condemned to spend hours in the car by the slow moving vehicles which had formed four, or five rows on the thin narrow road, I caught a glimpse of someone who looked like R. It brought back sharp memories of him. I continued to see him trying to direct the vehicles into some semblance of order. He had left his own Jeep to his driver. He must have been someone of importance, because shortly afterwards the police arrived to take over the responsibility of directing the traffic.
It was just the back view of him which reminded me of my husband. It took us (the driver, and I) four exhausting hours to reach Peshawar. The truck loaded with furniture (from my home in the village), and three laborers had reached hours earlier than us, and were waiting impatiently by the locked gate. The furniture was unloaded, and put into the garage. The sofas, and dining chairs went into the empty guest room.
Next day everything was moved upstairs into the enclosed space of the veranda. Some items got sold, and they had to be moved downstairs again for them to be taken away. There are still furniture, and personal items to be removed from the house in the village. I didn’t want my greedy step brother in law to use my things in case he forcibly decided to occupy my home in my absence.
My enclosed veranda.
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