It's wrong what they say about the past, I've learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out. - Khaled Hosseini

In the coming days and weeks, Laila would scramble frantically to commit it all to memory, what happened next. Like an art lover running out of a burning museum, she would grab whatever she could — a look, a whisper, a moan — to salvage from perishing to preserve. But time is the most unforgiving of fires, and she couldn't, in the end, save it all.

She would never leave her mark on Mammy's heart the way her brothers had, because Mammy's heart was like a pallid beach where Laila's footprints would forever wash away beneath the waves of sorrow that swelled and crashed, swelled and crashed.

The desert weed lives on, but the flower of spring blooms and wilts.