Veils

It has been round about fifteen years.
I met you with a tiny passport photo in your hand.
"Look she is three."
Assumptions.
Margins.
Words that didn't fit, about the precious one
left in that country you loved, called home.
Sugar.
Sugar cube.
"No, it isn't like that."
You talked about changing your mind.
"I used to have a moustache"
You talked about being on this side of the argument and then on the other.
Disillusionment.
Puzzlement for me being a woman.
The history of your country.
Time...
We continued to talk. Sometimes on the same side of the argument.
I was more puzzled about her now.
More assumptions.
"Women back home are strong."
Sugar cube.
Sugar.
And then the change.
She raised her height.
She held up her direct gaze.

Veils

She asked.
She challenged.
She was fifteen.
She wouldn't fit under the veil.
She refused.
"I don't understand...She is getting into trouble."
You smiled though,
pleased that she knew her own mind like you.
Uncertain - like you.
You had to find a solution.
For her:
New words.
New country.
"The veil is part of her story."
Sugar.
Sugar cube.
Now looking at the world with her gaze direct.
The veil in her satchel (just in case) next to her camera
as she goes on exploring, conquering, understanding.