By the time that the cool stubble of spring had become summer's rich overgrowth, the girl in the headscarf appeared to be legally employed and working hard. She would leave the house early each morning and return late in the evening. Of course she wore the headscarf and below that the uniform of one of the local chain stores. I only saw her occasionally but she always seemed to walk with a certain nobility. Her skin was dark beneath the headscarf, the eyes bright and the teeth perfectly white. Her back stood straight and her shoulders high. She looked hopeful and proud to me. Like the home she had created, I thought she was a sight to behold.
By this time, the neighbors talk was of a different flavor. They said that the headscarf she wore was a symbol that concerned them in no small measure. There had been whisperings in the local church and prayer meetings about the nature of her religion and exactly what it entailed. What information they had been unable to glean from church they had learned from the News.
Some said that the girl's god was sexist. There was further concern that her god was an intolerant one and that his teachings encouraged violence against those who had chosen gods other than he. Something about that god sounded familiar, although if I'm honest I haven't been to church in a while to know exactly where that familiarity stems from.
Like I said already, the girl in the headscarf lived on the corner of the street. I live up the street from that house, up on the hill such that if I had ever felt a need to keep a watchful eye on her, I likely could have. I never felt that need, but a man can't help his eyes from seeing if they're open.
On one of those bright summer mornings, I was passing an upstairs window when I saw that girl in her back garden, kneeling on a rug. According to my intel from the neighbors, the rug was called a prayer mat. They said that this is what those foreigners use to worship that vengeful god of theirs. I'm no expert-I don't even watch the TV much-but that ritual looked like something peaceful to me. I thought it might be nice to go down there and talk to her about her prayer-time, maybe even ask her where her family were and if she needed any help with anything. I'm sad to say I didn't, though. I guess it doesn't matter. It wouldn't have made much difference anyway. Might have got me in trouble with the neighbors too.
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Thanks so much for reading! G.H.
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CITEȘTI
The Girl in the Headscarf
Proză scurtă**Previously published in Mobius** A piece of dark fiction that reflects the realities of our modern age, yet remains timeless. A passive narrator from Anytown observes the comings and goings of an apparent refugee throughout a calendar year and de...
