These days are sadness at its most vivid. You have, at dawn, at dusk, the prayer call, the Ezan, the Takbir and the Shahada sung like smoke caught in the heat of the throat, a prayer-wisp, a delicate meandering.
Then the bells from St. Sophia will start. Their self regard rattling the valley with sudden gusts, a pressure change of sounds hanging at their temperatures, the clatter of a looming summer squall.
That’s the hurt calling you across the valley. There’s nothing to do but drink it in; it will or won’t be waiting, but you, you for the very first time You, have wet skin and drying eyes, the glitter-kiss of first rain dancing on the pavement, the roll of thunder
like laughter, coming when you least expect it.