Mornings change nothing in my life. Seasons come and go, torn threads reattached by the strength of nature, the strength of living and survival. My life is reconnected year after year; and the vestiges of these connections remain recurring riddles, painful but not fatal. Seasons end and do not return. Nothing returns; I must get used to that. I must get used to the fact that my mother will not return and that my brother, whom I love, is also about to leave. I dread his leaving. I dread being alone with a shaykh, who is a father by chance only, and an aunt whose life is restricted and limited to meetings at the majlis. My brother leaving means loneliness. It also means that it will not be easy for Karim to find a reason to visit the haara.