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etting close now。
I thought about the last time I had seen Rahim Khan； in 1981。 He had e to say good…bye the night Baba and I had fled Kabul。 I remember Baba and him embracing in the foyer； crying softly。 When Baba and I arrived in the U。S。； he and Rahim Khan kept in touch。 They would speak four or five times a year and； sometimes； Baba would pass me the receiver。 The last time I had spoken to Rahim Khan had been shortly after Baba s death。 The news had reached Kabul and he had called。 We d only spoken for a few minutes and lost the connection。
The driver pulled up to a narrow building at a busy corner where two winding streets intersected。 I paid the driver； took my lone suitcase； and walked up to the intricately carved door。 The building had wooden balconies with open shutters……from many of them； laundry was hanging to dry in the sun。 I walked up the creaky stairs to the second floor； down a dim hallway to the last door on the right。 Checked the address on the piece of stationery paper in my palm。 Knocked。
Then； a thing made of skin and bones pretending to be Rahim Khan opened the door。
A CREATIVE WRITING TEACHER at San Jose State used to say about clich閟： Avoid them like the plague。 Then he d laugh at his own joke。 The class laughed along with him； but I always thought clich閟 got a bum rap。 Because； often； they re dead…on。 But the aptness of the clich閐 saying is overshadowed by the nature of the saying as a clich椤！or example； the elephant in the room saying。 Nothing could more correctly describe the initial moments of my reunion with Rahim Khan。
We sat on a wispy mattress set along the wall； across the window overlooking the noisy street below。 Sunlight slanted in and cast a triangular wedge of light onto the Afghan rug on the floor。 Two folding chairs rested against one wall and a small copper samovar sat in the opposite corner。 I poured us tea from it。
How did you find me？ I asked。
It s not difficult to find people in America。 I bought a map of the U。S。； and called up information for cities in Northern California； he said。 It s wonderfully strange to see you as a grown man。
I smiled and dropped three sugar cubes in my tea。 He liked his black and bitter； I remembered。 Baba didn t get the chance to tell you but I got married fifteen years ago。 The truth was； by then； the cancer in Baba s brain had made him forgetful； negligent。
You are married？ To whom？
Her name is Soraya Taheri。 I thought of her back home； worrying about me。 I was glad she wasn t alone。
Taheri。。。 whose daughter is she？
I told him。 His eyes brightened。 Oh； yes； I remember now。 Isn t General Taheri married to Sharif jan s sister？ What was her name。。。
Jamila jan。
Balay！ he said； smiling。 I knew Sharif jan in Kabul； long time ago； before he moved to America。
He s been working for the INS for years； handles a lot of Afghan cases。
Haiiii； he sighed。 Do you and Soraya jan have children？
Nay。
Oh。 He slurped his tea and didn t ask more； Rahim Khan had always been one of the most instinctive people I d ever met。
I told him a lot about Baba； his