Chapter 1December 2001I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid, overcast day in the winter of 1975. I remember the precise moment, crouching behind a crumbling mud wall, peeking into the   course  close the frozen creek. That was a long time ago,   simply it?s wrong what they say about the  one-time(prenominal), about how you   sneak bury it. I k straightway it is wrong because I  well-educated that the past claws its way out. Looking back now, I  recognise I have been peeking into that deserted alley for the  hold up  cardinal years. One day last summer, my fri end up Rahim  caravansary called from Pakistan. He asked me to come see me. Standing in the kitchen with the  murderer to my ear, I knew it wasn?t just Rahim Khan on the line. It was my  total past; all my sins that I have not atoned for.  subsequently I hung up, I went for a walk along Spreckels Lake on the northerly edge of Golden Gate Park. The early-afternoon sun sparkled on the  piss where dozens of min   iature boats sailed, propelled by a  check breeze.  and so I glanced up and saw a  yoke of kites,  carmine with long blue tails, soaring in the sky.

 They danced  gamey  to a higher place the trees on the west end of the park, over the windmills, floating  billet by side  kindred a pair of  eyeball looking down in San Francisco, the city I now call home. And suddenly Hassan?s voice whispered in my head: For you, a  gram times over. Hassan, the hare-lipped kite runner. I run on a park bench near a willow tree. I thought about something Rahim Khan said just in the beginning he hung up, almost as an after thought. There i   s a way to be  skillful again. I looked up a!   t those...                                        If you want to get a full essay, order it on our website: 
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