The cold faucet in my shower needs to be fixed. I have to turn it five or six times before it will release any water. I also need to change two of the lamp bulbs in my room. I’ve been putting the task off for days and my room is now too dark. All I have to do is open the closet in the living room and take a 60 watts bulb out. But something keeps me from moving, from doing the simplest things. Sometimes I sit for hours in front of my old IBM laptop. I don’t have the energy to get up; I don’t want to get up. In the mornings, I like to sleep or close my eyes if I can’t sleep any longer. When I’m awake, I like to imagine the dreams that I didn’t get to have the night before.
My life needs a little bit of repairing. And I’m not just talking about a loose faucet or a broken bulb, I’m talking about bad habits that need repair.

I didn’t close my bedroom door last night before I went to bed. Maybe I was too lazy or maybe it just didn’t matter. Every night before I fall asleep, I look at the world map next to me on the wall. I think of all the places I want to see and go to sleep with those thoughts. Sometimes the only way to get to what I want is through my dreams.

I picked the coffee cup with the blue and green paint. We had three candles lit and the rest of the lights were out. Outside the rain poured. The house was dark and gloomy; the only thing missing was a funeral reception. But she liked the setting that way so I had to accept the temporary silence and darkness. She looked into my coffee cup and told me what she saw. Birds. A bride and a groom. I listened and she read my life, or at least pieces of it. That dark afternoon I drank the turkish coffee and listened to my fate as she told it. On that moment, that bitter coffee made me happy. The rain that I always hate relieved and soothed me. I never thought I would ever love the things I hate.

He said I will be a writer in New York. I didn’t want to hear it because I was scared. Scared it wouldn’t happen. I guess it is what I want, yet I’m afraid of it. I’ve always loved New York; I have one of those white t-shirts with the red heart that say ‘I Love New York’. But, the question is, do I love it enough to build a life there? To suddenly throw myself out in the crowded, dirty streets of Manhattan? Will I trust myself?
Every time I say good-bye to Manhattan and Times Square, I think to myself, what would it be like if I don’t have to say good-bye? Would it be so hard? Why am I afraid of the big city that I’ve always said I love?

Somehow the emptiness of M street in D.C. made me feel empty inside. R and I continued to walk the bare sidewalks despite our dissatisfaction. She wasn’t happy as usual, but I was. The mall lacked any sense of liveliness. I noticed the Christmas decorations that are always displayed during this time and wondered what they meant to me.

The class was still taking the psychology test. Some kids were done. I finished mine and turned it in. Then, I laid my head down on the desk and stared blankly at the white board to my right. A few minutes were left until the bell would ring and the kids would run out of their classes, screaming from joy down the halls. It was the last the day of the 2005 school year.
I was thinking of how I would have liked to spend my Christmas vacation. A trip to London or one to New York City could have been perfect. But, instead I am going to stay at my apartment in Arlington, sleep-in late, watch Bridget Jones Diaries for the hundredth time, continue listening to Madonna’s new album, drink numerous cups of tea and Starbucks, and write. I am okay with these plans. It’s a new year, a new beginning, and it really doesn’t matter where I am.

Yesterday I came home from school, threw my backpack aside, and found a birthday card on my desk. It was from my sister; she’d forgotten to give it to me with her gift. There was no stamp on the back of the envelope. I read the card, closed it, and believed she really was here, with me, with us.

When L said I was beautiful I didn’t say thank you. I didn’t say how unimportant that word was. I didn’t say that it meant nothing. I only looked into the lens for a few seconds as she focused it on my face for our portrait project. She said there was something about me. She wanted to capture different expressions on my face. She wanted a goofy face for a change, but all I gave her was an indifferent look. I couldn’t pretend. There was nothing to laugh about. I had turned 18. I was wearing the black sweater my sister bought for my birthday and a pair of dangling earrings with a necklace. My weekend had been a happy one, one I would never forget. My girlfriends and I had danced on Saturday evening to a mix of Persian and Arabic songs. We had eaten a mocha flavored birthday cake and a friend of mine had wanted to reverse the 1 and 8 candle sticks so I would be 81 instead. I celebrated that day and “beautiful” had meant something.
Sometimes words aren’t enough. Sometimes you want more than words and compliments that only last a few minutes before you realize you’re waiting out in the cold and there is no one. Sometimes, words become indefinable, even a simple word like beautiful.

She had waited for a day in which she would go out in the middle of a winter afternoon to a café for hot coffee.
R and I sat in a corner near the window so she could look outside. The round, wooden table was pushed against the window and was decorated with a small flower crammed into a tiny jar. A woman sat next to us; she was alone with her work papers and a bowl of tomato soup. Two women sat by the fake fire place and laughed loudly between their conversations.
Before R came to the U.S., she lived a transitory life in her country. She put everything on hold because her heart belonged to America and her mind to a green, plastic card. She contented herself with temporary relationships and decisions. Everything was on hold including her dream wedding ring and her dream house with the big family photo. It was a life on hold.
Today though, R sat in front of me and smiled, holding her hot cup of French Coffee. While she held the cup in her hands, she watched the snow fall behind the glass window. The coffee and the snow were two permanent things she knew she could hold on to forever.

With numerous letters and e-mails, my cousin Sasha and I have kept our friendship alive. We’ve known each other since we were three. We said goodbye to each other when we were 11 and since then I’ve seen her only once. During these years, we only spoke once on the phone. Phone conversations don’t make much sense when you’re 1000 miles away. You can hear their voice, but you can’t tell how they feel because their voice is distant and unfamiliar. We learn about each other through our many letters. We send each other birthday and New Year’s cards. We say a lot in one letter, at least we try to. Although we’ve been apart so long, I think we know each other quite well. I know her secrets, her desires, her dreams, what she values, what she wants, and she knows that I know. Technology has allowed us to stay in touch. I see her tears and laughter when I read her letters, her smile and frown; she sees mine too. When I visited her four years ago, I thought we wouldn’t know each other, that we’d feel like strangers meeting for the first time, but I was wrong. Our relationship was stronger than before. I was half-American, new and changed, but she knew me. She recognized me; she saw and accepted the old and the new me. I knew her too, she’d changed, her voice, her tone and her thoughts were different. But she was everything I need, the perfect friend and sister.
Now we still e-mail each other to say ‘hi’ and ‘how are you’, and sometimes our sentences cover the whole page. We have kept the memories of our past together and we are still making new ones, even from far away.