Memories spring up from the strangest of places, of moments and hideaways I’d temporarily forgotten.  One is the view from our maid’s roof.  I could see the whole village from there.  Dirty rooftops, laundry lines pulling from roof to roof, as if the line was never-ending and connected, with little blue sweaters and head scarves hanging there.  Women sat on the roofs and made bread or bulgar and chattered or sang that familiar Turkish song that sounds like crying.  Men’s voices sang too, from the tops of minarets (they sang in rounds, it seemed) the sound traveling too slowly from minaret to minaret to be in sync.  On the dirty streets, children played soccer in little plastic sandals.

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