Sandpiper
by zoss in excerpts, lite-rat-ure, books
by: Ahdaf Soueif
London : Bloomsbury, 1996.
I think of you often. I think of you often, and I remember. I remember, for instance, your old nanny coming into your room, the edges of her tarha [headscarf] bitten between her teeth to hide half her face. Her eyes, filmed with cataracts, were so dim she must have been seeing you as though through a mist. I remember your husband turning from the phone, and the small gesture of your hand that stilled the impatient words on his lips. The old woman muttered indistinctly as she moved towards you, her arm describing cramped, arthritic circles with the smoking incense-burner. Through the window, the darkness of the Cairo night was so intense, it seemed that if I reached out my hand I would touch black velvet.”
(from “I think of you”, page 129)
