31
Connie slipped out after dinner was over. She’d not managed a single word edgewise since stepping into the house. John had answered questions for her when it was clear she wasn’t going to speak. Couldn’t speak.
She stepped off the back porch and was assaulted by a thousand smells she could only guess at. A few were obvious. The fried chicken dinner on her lips and the woodsmoke drifting from the chimney that led to the wood stove warming the large and crowded living room where the whole family gathered now. The cold night air carried something different.
Afghanistan’s night air had been tainted with mint and cooking lamb. The Muskogee night tasted equally foreign. Hinted at memories she couldn’t place, couldn’t find.
The stars themselves were foreign. A week ago the distant heavens
