One night this week past, I found myself inside the world of a much loved photograph by Thomas Abercrombie. Close to the carpet-covered hillside was a settlement. Women were hanging fabrics to dry over low, scorched bushes. It was that magic hour with the golden light.
Although I knew I wasn't in Turkey, I tried a Turkish greeting. Merhaba! I called. The men ignored me. The women tittered behind hands with henna-tipped nails. They left me to my own devices.
I stood writing a postcard to my dear friend whom I haven't seen in many years. I wrote in pencil, pressing against a rough wall.
The air smelled of thyme. There was the sound of birds.
Orioles, I thought.
