Explosions

      They had shrieked back and forth at each other all afternoon. The old lady and her granddaughter had squabbled all summer about coming home late in the evenings, her too short skirt barely skimming her knees, or spending too much time with the Israeli Arab boys.
      Savta pinched the corner of the last dripping towel and released the clothespin, securing it to the line. The water dripped down from the clothes onto some dandelions. Rachel liked to collect these dandelions and other attractive weeds by the handful, but she never would help Savta pick vegetables from their garden. Wouldn’t so much as bend a knee. Now Rachel was moping around aimlessly.
      “Those dandelions are getting tall, a real sunny yellow,” Savta said, coming into the house, hoping for a response but focusing on her dirty hands like she didn’t care either way.  Rachel blew past her and let the door slam behind.
      “I can’t stand this place!” her grandaughter screeched.  She scooped up a handful of dusty sand from the desert ground and threw it at the clean laundry, still trickling. The chalky air blew it away before it reached the clothes. Then she turned toward the rippling mirages of heat and headed into town, swinging her arms back and forth.  She spewed a spray of frothy...