The hut was made of wooden roofs. On the outside they were tomato-red slates. On the inside the roof was four running logs and rafters. It was beautiful.
It was old, the hut. Very, very old. Sometimes when Sakina asked how old it exactly was, she could only gather peals of laughter.
Why did everything cause adults to laugh? Why did they laugh all the time?
And the floors were made cement squares, not strips of lean rectangles. What are those anyway? The floors were always welcomingly cool, not cold like of those— impaired circulation. You could lay on it; the fat of your cheek pressed on the cool surface was what was home. It provided sleep and safety like nothing else could—the floor.
Sakina was a happening kid, she often imagined controversies and became a little too excited on the onset of minor inconvenience—"the lights are out! How wonderfully scary. Let's go get heaps of candels, and lamps, and, oh! A torch.
"There seems to have been a dispute in the neighborhood, we are going to have to move out.
"No water till Monday? How will we live? What if the cows come in and demand us to give them a shower?
You know how Father likes to call them in, right?"
Sakina. . . Sakina was not what she is now.
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YOU ARE READING
h a i m i s h
Poezja. . . haimish; moon talks, and alleyed pyols. . . . homes a collection of snippets from the times I feel most at home. prose/poetry
