The palm trees put on white hoods, saber cacti were sheathed in cotton wool, children licked it off the balcony railings as if it were whipped cream. It stayed for a remarkable 24 hours and every car in the city sported a snowman on its roof! Pickup trucks carried snow people riders. All the photographs of the Great President on University Avenue had bushy snow eyebrows.
Everyone laughed. They laughed a lot over little things. When the old lady who was throwing her garbage out on the street nearly hit me with a plastic bottle, we both laughed; students running to catch the bus missed it, and they laughed; the girl who cut the party cake which fell apart, laughed. They all laughed when the Great President’s eyebrows slid down over his face.
Their laughter was lighter than snowflakes, as strong as spider silk. It was the fabric that protected them in that palace where the desert is unfailing, dark as the secret police and dependable as their poverty
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