Hasan spent the first three days of his life inside an incubator. When at last he did come out, many things changed.

When his father took him into his arms, Hasan was warm, and tender; his father was not. Still inside the operating room, Hasan's father could see life dim in his wife's eyes — silently, slowly, painfully. He felt the cold limpness of Maryam's hands; still sweaty and moist, of all the pain. But not alive, no. Maryam died when Hasan came into the world. And it was such an abrupt, loud, condescending truth that Yusuf could not deny, not even for once.

Maryam was gone. Her mouth left ajar, her eyes left watery, her hands stretched to him, her color rusting, leaving, were all a certain detonation — Maryam is dead, Yusuf. And you have no time, be ready for a baby.

It took him some time, but Yusuf could look into Hasan's eyes, and in them see the joy of his wife, hear the laughter of her imagination and feel the love of something . . . delicate, of something pacific, of something silent, and yet so calming.

Like that they grew up together; Yusuf and Hasan. Of age, and of life, and of moving, and of pausing and looking out into the world, to call to it and say, 'Look here, this is my father. We are out for an ice-cream date. Look, he stitched me a denim cap. Look World, we are happy. It's okay. Look at us for a little more — and we'll pick you beautiful leaves fallen on grounds, we'll give them to you.'

'Listen, it's so silent. You can hear her breathing. Listen, that is our world Hasan, she listens. See, you see that? The tree swaying? Listen to the joy of her life, and the laughter of her dreams . . . It's there in the butterflies, and in the grass, it's there in evening suns, always. You don't miss her do you? You always notice her.'

Yusuf grew old, like all fathers do. Hasan grew caring, as scared sons do. His career now an artistic expression, his purpose now, to walk, and to run, and then to stop for a while; because his old father has lived enough, he is panting, and he is sleeping. Let him rest, while you stand up straight, and brave. Let him be warm and tender in your arms, let his eyes talk of pacific, delicate calm. Look Hasan, it's okay. The world will send you a friend. And in the world now, you will see your father, as you see your mother.

'Hasan, Hasan, earn well, love well, grow well. Hasan, look there I am. There we are, over the evening sun.'

Hasan held his father's hands. They still were warm and alive as he closed his eyes, and fell asleep into the world. His white beard and his bald head twinkled at him, as he looked out with his blurry vision; of a sunset that would always come.