There is a strand of rick-rack lace, black, half an inch wide. The edges are frayed, opened by my daughter. Her father wraps it around her hand like a head band and says, take a photo. Arre wah! Says Fizzah, a phrase she's picked up. A bit hangs down the side of her head like the dangly bit of a graduation cap. She smiles her teethy smile, and shakes the thing off of her head.
It's all over in 30 seconds. Now its lying on the floor; I suppose I'll add it to her toys. Her pants are on the floor as well, the ones that I was trying to convince her to wear, and there's a romper that was drying, that she pulled off the stand, and a few mismatched socks, a couple of colour pencils, and a Dr. Suess book.
It's quiet inside. Outside, there's the banging and drilling of construction, and far off honking sounds. Birds cooing, chirping and cawing and the azaan coming on for Asr.
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