One day in spring, I went with my parents and a group from a charitable association to celebrate the opening of a well in a remote village. We rode in a van with the group and enjoyed the trip as everyone laughed and talked.
Half way there, we found that the road was flooded and we couldn’t continue on. Everyone was disappointed, but decided that instead of just returning home we would take a day trip to Tangier.
We drove a little further and then pulled over on the top of a mountain overlooking the Mediterranean. It was prayer time, so everyone went into the mosque while we waited outside.
The view was beautiful. We stood on the edge of a cliff looking down at the beach and the blue water far below. It was hot, so we enjoyed the view a bit longer and then headed back toward the building to find some shade.
It was quiet in that small neighborhood; there were almost no people outside. I stood in the shade, listening to the birds and watching a cat walk lazily up the street.
A door opened to the house across from us and a little girl in a blue djellaba came out. She walked slowly down the street to a small shop, and then came back up the hill carrying a bag of bread. She went back to the house, opened the door and as the door slammed shut, she disappeared. I stood there staring at the door, wishing I could have followed her inside. A few minutes later the group came out of the mosque, and we all piled into the hot van. I looked back out the window as we headed down the mountain, and the small village faded out of sight.