Her failure was barely noticeable because all the children were wearing what some other failing seamstress had sewn. They all resorted to them out of poverty, so we could not tell the difference between a good seamstress and a bad one.
I looked forward to the Eid money, the sweets and for Aziz to remove the chains from that swing of his which filled the children’s hearts with joy. Despite its rustiness, it propelled them towards it, pushing and shoving, with their metal coins in hand. They wanted to swing and repeat the one song they memorized for the occasion:
“O sons of Abu Sharshouba! Yobah…Aisha the betrothed one! Yobah…And who will her husband be? Muhammad Amin…”
We had no idea who Abu Sharshouba, Aisha or her fiancé Muhammad Amin were. But the dream of getting engaged, for girls a
