Now the last of the mourners had paid their respects and the mosque¹ was empty, save for the mullah unplugging the microphone and wrapping his Koran in green cloth. The general and I stepped out into a late-afternoon sun. We walked down the steps, past men smoking in clusters. I heard snippets of their conversations, a soccer game in Union City next weekend, a new Afghan restaurant in Santa Clara. Life moving on already, leaving Baba behind. 最后一批哀悼者已经致哀完毕，清真寺人去楼空，只有那个毛拉在收起麦克风，用一块绿布裹起《可兰经》。将军和我走进黄昏的阳光中。我们走下台阶，走过一群吸烟的男人。我零星听到他们谈话，下个周末在尤宁城有场足球赛，圣克拉拉新开了一家阿富汗餐厅。生活已然在前进，留下爸爸在后面。

“How are you, bachem?” General Taheri said.I gritted² my teeth. Bit back the tears that had threatened all day. “I’m going to find Soraya,” I said. “你怎么样，我的孩子？ ”塔赫里将军说。我咬紧牙齿，将忍了一整天的泪水咽下。“我去找索拉雅。”我说。

“Okay.” “好的。”

I walked to the women’s side of the mosque. Soraya was standing³ on the steps with her mother and a couple of ladies I recognized vaguely⁴ from the wedding. I motioned to Soraya. She said something to her mother and came to me. 我走进清真寺的女人区。索拉雅和她妈妈站在台阶上，还有几个我似乎在婚礼上见过的女士。我朝索拉雅招招手。她跟母亲说了几句话，向我走来。

“Can we walk?” I said. “可以陪我走走吗？”

“Sure.” She took my hand. “当然。”她拉起我的手。我们沿着一条蜿蜒的碎石路，默默前行，旁边有一排低矮的篱笆。

We walked in silence down a winding⁵ gravel⁶ path lined by a row of low hedges. We sat on a bench and watched an elderly couple kneeling beside a grave a few rows away and placing a bouquet⁷ of daisies by the headstone. “Soraya?” 我们坐在长凳上，看见不远处有对年老夫妇，跪在墓前，将一束雏菊放在墓碑上。“索拉雅？”

“Yes?” “怎么了？”

“I’m going to miss him.” “我开始想他了。”

She put her hand on my lap. Baba’s chila glinted on her ring finger. Behind her, I could see Baba’s mourners driving away on Mission Boulevard. Soon we’d leave too, and for the first time ever, Baba would be all alone. 她把手放在我的膝盖上。爸爸的戒指在她手上闪闪发亮。我能看到，在她身后，那些前来哀悼爸爸的人们驾车离开，驶上传教大道。很快，我们也会离开，第一次，也是永远，留下爸爸孤独一人。

Soraya pulled me to her and the tears finally came. 索拉雅将我拉近，泪水终于掉下来。