an adaptable species

I find myself in a long sweater and head scarf, crammed in a Corolla with six people bumping over muddy streets past war-scarred walls, coming back from the French cafe where we snacked on croissants filled with imported chocolate. The roads are shared by cars, buses, donkey carts, herds of goats, military convoys. There are men with huge guns, women in blue burqas. The air fills five times a day with the cacophony of the call to prayer. In choppy but exuberant Farsi I discuss dysmenorrhea, infertility, prenatal care. City power cuts out, the generator hums. Our chaokidar comes in to light the sawdust bukhari. And this all feels quite natural.