Friday afternoon in Paghman. An open field of grass speckled with mulberry trees in blossom. Hassan and I stand ankle-deep in untamed grass, I am tugging on the line, the spool spinning in Hassan’s calloused hands, our eyes turned up to the kite in the sky. Not a word passes between us, not because we have nothing to say, but because we don’t have to say anything--that’s how it is between people who are each other’s first memories, people who have fed from the same breast.

周五下午在Paghman，在一片點綴著已開花的桑樹的草地上，Hassan和我站在齊踝深的野草中，我拉著風箏的線，線軸在Hassan滿是老繭的手中旋轉著，我們都抬眼望著天空中的風箏。我們之間相對無言，并不是我們沒什么好說的，而是我們不必說什么——那就是彼此是對方的最初的記憶的人之間的默契，那就是兩個被同樣的乳房哺育長大的人之間的默契。