A Far Away Home by Howard Faber

in the
window of the kitchen.”
    The door opened slowly. Shireen peeked timidly out, knowing it must be Ali, but still
afraid. “Ali, it is you!” Now she was the old, unafraid of anything Shireen. She
stopped when she saw the other man, the Iranian pilot. Ali introduced them and reassured
her it was all right. All the while they were standing in the rain. Shireen laughed
and said they might want to come in out of the rain. Ali laughed, too, and stepped
into his home.
    â€œIs Dad at his shop? Where’s Mom? Sorry, how are you? I don’t know where to start.”
    Shireen waited for him to finish, then asked him and the pilot to please sit down.
“Would you like some tea? You must be tired. I’m sorry I kept you outside and didn’t
answer the door.” She brought them some green tea and some warm bread. They sat on
the floor cushions, placing their cups and plates in front of them.
    â€œAli, mother died last month, mostly of sadness and fear, I think. She left a letter
for you. She told me what to write. It’s a wonderful letter, full of love. She said
she knew you would come back. She wasn’t sick, just so sad. She suffered a lot when
father died. He was killed by the Taliban when they came to Sharidure. They brought
all of the men in and lined them up and shot them all. I can’t tell you how terrible
it was. If you had been here, they would have killed you, too. They came back several
times, though not lately. That’s why I was afraid to open the door.”
    Ali began weeping. He was overcome by his parents being gone. The only sound was
his sobbing.
    Finally he stood. “Could I see the letter?” Shireen went to get it. It was folded
once. Ali opened it and read it, silently. It sounded just like his mother, full
of love and quietness. He could see her, sitting, telling Shireen what to write.
It told of her joy in seeing his plane, waving its wings, knowing it was him, and
how proud she was that he could be bringing food to them. There were hints of her
sadness, of how afraid she was of the Taliban, but mostly, it was words of hope,
saying she knew a better day was coming. He refolded the letter and tucked it into
his felt vest, the one she had made before he left.
    ***
    That afternoon, the rain stopped, the wind died down, and the sun came out. The pilot
wanted to go see the plane and the damage, if any was done in the landing. Really
he wanted to leave the brother and sister to themselves, to talk more without an
outsider there to hear. Ali and Shireen appreciated it. Ali showed him the path up
to the airfield.
    Ali wanted to go into his old town. He went first to his father’s carpentry shop.
Inside, it was just like he remembered, with various projects left to be finished.
On a table was a toy truck, partially painted. His dad must have been making it for
some child. He sat down at the table the truck was on. The paint jars were there,
and so was a small brush. The truck was a model of the local trucks, a “loree,” the
same kind he and his father rode in the back of to Kabul, the same kind he rode on
his way to Iran. He sat a while, then decided to complete the painting. Just before
the daylight faded, he had finished. He set it aside to dry. It felt so good to be
there, in his father’s shop, in his hometown. He began to think about his family,
far away in Iran. They must be worried by now, wondering why he wasn’t back.
    He walked up to the plane, hoping the radio might work to call Iran. The pilot was
in the plane, checking out the systems. He said the radio worked, but that he was
hesitant to try to call because some unfriendly ears might hear and get a fix on
where they were. He showed Ali the broken propeller on the wing that had been the
pivot for the ground loop landing. The end of the wing was also damaged. They wouldn’t
be flying out of Sharidure, at least not today.
    Ali and Homyoon talked about what to do next. They