“Father took me to the Blue Mosque,” Sohrab said. “I remember there were so many pigeons outside the masjid, and they weren’t afraid of people. They came right up to us. Sasa gave me little pieces of _naan_ and I fed the birds. Soon, there were pigeons cooing all around me. That was fun.” “You must miss your parents very much,” I said. I wondered if he’d seen the Taliban drag his parents out into the street. I hoped he hadn’t.“Do you miss your parents?” he aked, resting his cheek on his knees, looking up at me.“Do I miss my parents? Well, I never met my mother. My father died a few years ago, and, yes, I do miss him. Sometimes a lot.” “Do you remember what he looked like?” I thought of Baba’s thick neck, his black eyes, his unruly brown hair. Sitting on his lap had been like sitting on a pair of tree trunks. “I remember what he looked like,” I said. “What he smelled like too.” “I’m starting to forget their faces,” Sohrab said. “Is that bad?” “No,” I said. “Time does that.” I thought of something. I looked in the front pocket of my coat. Found the Polaroid snap shot of Hassan and Sohrab. “Here,” I said. He brought the photo to within an inch of his face, turned it so the light from the mosque fell on it. He looked at it for a long time. I thought he might cry, but he didn’t. He just held it in both hands, traced his thumb over its surface. I thought of a line I’d read somewhere, or maybe I’d heard someone say it: There are a lot of children in Afghanistan, but little childhood. He stretched his hand to give it back to me. “Keep it,” I said. “It’s yours.” “Thank you.” He looked at the photo again and stowed it in the pocket of his vest. A horse-drawn cart clip-clopped by in the parking lot. Little bells dangled from the horse’s neck and jingled with each step. “I’ve been thinking a lot about mosques lately,” Sohrab said. “You have? What about them?”padding-bottom: 75%;"> “爸爸帶我去藍色清真寺。”索拉博說，“我記得那兒有很多鴿子，在那個回教堂外面，它們不怕人。它們朝我們走來，莎莎給我一小片饢，我喂那些鳥兒。很快，那些鴿子都圍在我身邊咯咯叫。真好玩。” “你一定很想念你的父母。”我說。我在想他有沒有看到塔利班將他的父母拖到街上。我希望他沒有。“你想念你的父母嗎？”他問，把臉頰放在膝蓋上，擡眼看着我。“我想念我的父母嗎？嗯，我從沒見過我的媽媽。我爸爸幾年前死了，是的，我想念他。有時很想。” “你記得他長什麼樣子嗎？” 我想起爸爸粗壯的脖子，黑色的眼睛，那頭不羈的棕發，坐在他大腿上跟坐在樹幹上一樣。“我記得他長什麼樣子，”我說，“我還記得他身上的味道。” “我開始忘記他們的面孔，”索拉博說，“這很糟嗎？” “不，”我說，“是時間讓你忘記的。”我想起某些東西。我翻開外套的前袋，找出那張哈桑和索拉博的寶麗萊合影，“給你。” 他將相片放在面前幾英寸的地方，轉了一下，以便讓清真寺的燈光照在上面。他久久看着它。我想他也許會哭，但他只是雙手拿着照片，拇指在它上面撫摸着。我想起一句不知道在什麼地方看來的話，或者是從別人口裏聽來的：阿富汗有很多兒童，但沒有童年。他伸出手，把它遞給我。 “你留着吧，”我說，“它是你的。” “謝謝你。”他又看了看照片，把它放在背心的口袋裏面。一輛馬車發着聲響駛進停車場。馬脖子上掛着很多小鈴鐺，隨着馬步叮噹作響。 “我最近經常想起清真寺。”索拉博說。 “真的嗎？都想些什麼呢？”
