Twenty years ago, my mother, no longer a prisoner, gave birth to me.
Twenty years have gone by. We have left behind a thousand pieces of a country stained by revolution and war. We have left behind a dusty trail and have bought a house with a back yard. We have cut down dead trees that were a hazard to the house. We have Americanized and revolutionized into liberated women. We have taken a new faith, one of individuality. We have found our own Gods. We have begun writing.
Twenty years.
My father isn’t the same man. He is thinner, but happier. He lives on a strict diet of fat free. He solves puzzles, gardens, rakes leaves and walks the lawn.
My mother graduated from college with an associates degree in childhood development. My mother is opening a daycare in the basement. My mother stresses over loans and mortgage, but reminds herself that in America, she can be rich.
Twenty years.
On my first day in an American school, I said, “I don’t understand” to everyone who approached me with a question. I repeated my name over and over and heard it back in one too many syllables.
Twenty years.
No longer a teenager, I am bound to follow my mother’s footsteps into becoming braver and daring to live my way. I am bound to adopt my father’s strength, remembering that hard times do end.
Twenty years pass by and you realize that people have revolutionized not only you, but everything that has happened to you.

Tonight, it is 31 degrees Fahrenheit and I am biting into vanilla ice cream. It’s one of those nights where you want to open a bottle of wine and just sip through the bitterness. I found an unopened bottle of Champaign in the fridge, unwrapped the gold aluminum around the top and realized I was too lazy to figure out how to unscrew the cork. Instead, I opened the freezer, grabbed the ice cream and served myself three big scoops of white vanilla.
My sister is in Mexico. I am in her big room, using her sound system, her bed and the comfy red sofa chair, her stuffed dog, Spotty, sitting next to me. I called in earlier to talk to sis. I bravely answered the man in Spanish, assuming he was asking for her room number, I said tres, cero, cero, uno. He didn’t understand, so I repeated myself, then finally he said something else really fast and I knew I was stuck so then he said it in English. I later realized I probably should have said tres mil uno. I don’t know how to prepare anymore. My Spanish is worse than ever. I watched an English movie with Spanish subtitles for a change. I don’t watch soap operas anymore because they talk so fast it makes me nervous.
I am leaving for Madrid on the third. Everybody is excited. Oh my god you’re going to Spain?! Oh you are gonna love it. You’ll have the best time of your life!
I am going to spend four months with strangers. But I’m curious to meet Senora Fidalgo and her two daughters. I am hoping they will excuse my bad Spanish. I have even prepared a little speech upon my introduction with the help of my Spanish tutor. Basically I will be telling her to excuse me for not understanding her, asking for patience until the time that I improve.
I am in a sueno, a dream. Everyday I picture myself walking through the terminal, looking for Felix, the man who will accompany me to my house. I picture our cab, the cabdriver making small talk while I sit there, silently, nervously tearing my fingernail.
But the other part of the dream is the part where I realize I’m finally doing something for myself. Something brave and maybe a little crazy.
I like crazy…
I dragged Mom to the swimming pool on this chilly night. She was too lazy and cold to go for a swim. But we went anyway. Drove to Providence recreation center, got into our swimsuits, and headed under the water. I cleared my head of Spain. Mom cleared hers of the trees that were cut down today in our yard. After a thirty minute swim, a fifteen minute Jacuzzi, and a two minute sauna, Mrs. M and I dragged ourselves out into the cold and got back on Cedar Lane, our eyes meeting, once again, the rein deers on our neighbor’s rooftop and the six-feet snow man on the front lawn.

I’m selling a photo on Ebay. You can also click on the right and see it on Flickr.
Check out the link:
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Darya means sea in Farsi.
I love water. I’ve loved it ever since I was little and played in the beach with my cousins. We used to love the waves. We’d stand near the edge, afraid of getting any closer, and sang for the waves to come faster. The thrill of all that energy and strength killed us, made us laugh so hard we’d hold our stomachs and yell. The ocean was like one of those toys we wanted so bad but couldn’t have, or like a big blanket that encompassed all of our dreams. We were little. The ocean was ours and yet it was so far beyond our reach. We’d bury our feet underneath the silky sands, pick crystal seashells and add more stones to our collection. We role-played by the ocean. I was always the mean, nasty mom who forced her daughters into an unwanted marriage, the old-fashioned, arranged marriage. Sasha played the older daughter. My favorite game was the one that involved the made-belief guy named Koorosh, who fell in love with me. I was the daughter. Or maybe it was Sasha who fell in love. I can’t remember anymore. We loved that game so much we tried to make it into a series.
The house beach belonged to one of my other cousin’s. We loved that house. The beach was ours. The sea was ours. A whole yard of orange trees and tangerines. Barbecue in the afternoons. Nights were card games and dancing in bandary, the traditional southern dance.
And then there was the ocean, the sound of solitude and tranquility, wrapped inside the waves. We fell asleep to that. We woke up to that and there was nothing like it. Nothing like waking up and smelling fresh, salt water, eating homemade strawberry jam with sweet tea and fresh bread. Nothing like walking through those white gates, standing on the steps and watching the sea. Nothing like hearing your name through the waves.
Darya is everything. I think Leila should name her baby Darya and maybe we can tell her our stories of the sea.