silkroadcowboy

In my broken Russian I say, “This melon, please.”

The old Tajik woman points to another, “This one is better.”

I take the Somoni from my pocket.

“My daughter’s husband fell from the roof and died yesterday”, she says to the air.

Her soft words echo off the distant mountains.

“Why did Allah let this happen to my beautiful daughter?”

There are no tears in her eyes.

I don’t have enough Russian to reply.

I look down at my feet.

Here at the corner produce stall we stand together beneath the hot sun.