The dry well of quiet apologies

Dear Delyara, The desert wind is rattling the reed mats over the courtyard tonight, bringing the cold sand right into the room. My old mother is sleeping in the next room, her breathing shallow and dry like rustling palm leaves. I spent twelve years in Paris chasing an engineering diploma, living in a cold attic room, convincing myself that every month I spent away was an investment in our family’s honor. I came back last week with a framed piece of paper and a leather briefcase, only to find her eyes clouded with cataracts and her hands so weak she can barely hold a water clay jug. She doesn't recognize my face when the sun goes down—she thinks I am my father coming back from the palms. I traded her final good years for a title no one in this oasis gives a damn about.