Monday. It is official: we are moving on Saturday. My father is starting his new job at a factory in Tashkent on the fifteenth.
Tuesday. I told the class today. Dilnoza put her head on the desk and said nothing for a whole lesson. "Are you coming back in the summer?" she asked at the gate. "We are coming every July," I said. I hope that is true.
Wednesday. Mother is selling the beds and the big cardboard boxes are already in the corridor. Our life is in eleven boxes. Eleven!
Thursday. My grandmother isn't coming with us. She is staying in this house with the apricot tree. "That tree isn't going anywhere either," she says.
Friday. The truck is coming at six tomorrow morning. My cousin is driving it. We are taking the cat in a box with holes in the top. My grandmother is making bread for the road tonight — she started at nine.
Saturday, five o'clock. Nobody is asleep. The house is empty and it makes a strange sound when you walk. My grandmother hugged me at the door and put warm bread in my hands.
I am writing this in the dark in the front of the truck. One thing is certain: on Monday I am starting a new school where nobody knows my name.
And in July, I am coming back to that tree.