The walnut tree

We have gathered in the living room, drinking tea again, eating Maman’s chocolate cake. And Grandma is telling us about her house in Mashad where she used to rent rooms to young college girls. Tomorrow is Christmas day and we are telling Grandma about the things people will be doing. It’s like our own new year, my sister tells her. Families gather and spend the whole day together. Somehow the conversation moves to our apartment in Tehran, the basement and the big walnut tree that grew in the garden. I suddenly miss those days. The days when I belonged to Tehran, when I was little, living in a house with a walnut tree, with a red bicycle that Daddy bought when I was seven. The days when I stood, watching the tree in awe, feeling small.
The night’s conversation ends a little after 12 and everyone goes to bed. And I stay awake to write about Tehran. Again.

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