Page 275 - The Kite Runner

264 Khaled Hosseini

hilltop chasing each other or sat on a sloped ridge where there
was a good view of the airport in the distance. We’d watch air-
planes take off and land. Go running again.
Now, by the time I reached the top of the craggy hill, each
ragged breath felt like inhaling fire. Sweat trickled down my face.
I stood wheezing for a while, a stitch in my side. Then I went look-
ing for the abandoned cemetery. It didn’t take me long to find it. It
was still there, and so was the old pomegranate tree.
I leaned against the gray stone gateway to the cemetery where
Hassan had buried his mother. The old metal gates hanging off
the hinges were gone, and the headstones were barely visible
through the thick tangles of weeds that had claimed the plot. A
pair of crows sat on the low wall that enclosed the cemetery.
Hassan had said in his letter that the pomegranate tree hadn’t
borne fruit in years. Looking at the wilted, leafless tree, I doubted
it ever would again. I stood under it, remembered all the times
we’d climbed it, straddled its branches, our legs swinging, dappled
sunlight flickering through the leaves and casting on our faces a
mosaic of light and shadow. The tangy taste of pomegranate crept
into my mouth.
I hunkered down on my knees and brushed my hands against
the trunk. I found what I was looking for. The carving had dulled,
almost faded altogether, but it was still there: “Amir and Hassan.
The Sultans of Kabul.” I traced the curve of each letter with my
fingers. Picked small bits of bark from the tiny crevasses.
I sat cross-legged at the foot of the tree and looked south on
the city of my childhood. In those days, treetops poked behind the
walls of every house. The sky stretched wide and blue, and laun-
dry drying on clotheslines glimmered in the sun. If you listened
hard, you might even have heard the call of the fruit seller passing
through Wazir Akbar Khan with his donkey: Cherries! Apricots!