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g； which would be paid for by Baba。
We all agreed that Soraya and I would forgo the Shirini…khori。 Everyone knew the reason； so no one had to actually say it： that Baba didn t have months to live。
Soraya and I never went out alone together while preparations for the wedding proceeded……since we weren t married yet； hadn t even had a Shirini…khori； it was considered improper。 So I had to make do with going over to the Taheris with Baba for dinner。 Sit across from Soraya at the dinner table。 Imagine what it
would be like to feel her head on my chest； smell her hair。 Kiss her。 Make love to her。
Baba spent 35；000； nearly the balance of his life savings； on the awroussi； the wedding ceremony。 He rented a large Afghan banquet hail in Fremont……the man who owned it knew him from Kabul and gave him a substantial discount。 Baba paid for the ？？chi las； our matching wedding bands； and for the diamond ring I picked out。 He bought my tuxedo； and my traditional green suit for the nika……the swearing ceremony。 For all the frenzied preparations that went into the wedding night……most of it； blessedly； by Khanum Taheri and her friends…… I remember only a handful of moments from it。
I remember our nika。 We were seated around a table； Soraya and I dressed in green……the color of Islam； but also the color of spring and new beginnings。 I wore a suit； Soraya （the only woman at the table） a veiled long…sleeved dress。 Baba； General Taheri （in a tuxedo this time）； and several of Soraya s uncles were also present at the table。 Soraya and I looked down； solemnly respectful； casting only sideway glances at each other。 The mullah questioned the witnesses and read from the Koran。 We said our oaths。 Signed the certificates。 One of Soraya s uncles from Virginia； Sharif jan； Khanum Taheri s brother； stood up and cleared his throat。 Soraya had told me that he had lived in the U。S。 for more than twenty years。 He worked for the INS and had an American wife。 He was also a poet。 A small man with a birdlike face and fluffy hair； he read a lengthy poem dedicated to Soraya； jotted down on hotel stationery paper。 Wah wah； Sharifjan！ everyone exclaimed when he finished。
I remember walking toward the stage； now in my tuxedo； Soraya a veiled pan in white； our hands locked。 Baba hobbled next to me； the general and his wife beside their daughter。 A procession of uncles； aunts； and cousins followed as we made our way through the hail； parting a sea of applauding guests； blinking at flashing cameras。 One of Soraya s cousins； Sharif jan s son； held a Koran over our heads as we inched along。 The wedding song； ahesta boro； blared from the speakers； the same song the Russian soldier at the Mahipar checkpoint had sung the night Baba and I left Kabul：
Make morning into a key and throw it into the well；
Go slowly； my lovely moon； go slowly。 Let the morning sun forget to rise in the east； Go slowly； my lovely moon； go slowly。
I remember sitting on the sofa； set on the stage like a throne； Soraya s hand in mine； as three hundred or so faces looked on。 We did Ayena Masshaf； where they gave us a mirror and threw a veil over our heads； so we d be alone to gaze at each other s reflection。 Looking at Soraya s smiling face in that mirror； in the momentary privacy of the veil； I whispered to her for the first time that I loved her。 A blush； red like henna； bloomed on her cheeks。
I picture colorful platters of chopan kabob； sholeh…goshti； and wild…orange rice。 I see Baba between us on the sofa； smiling。 I remember sweat…drenched men dancing the traditional attan in a circle； bouncing； spinning faster and faster with the feve