I wake up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and as I walk down the stairs, Daddy says good morning. My sister has already set up the table on the porch. There are glasses of orange juice and cups of coffee for everyone. She asks me to bring the basket of bread as I make my way to the kitchen, my eyes still half-closed. She has on a pretty necklace and her short hair is tied behind her head. I smile at her and she returns the smile, asking me again if I could please bring plates.
What I love about summer in Fairfax are mornings in our house on Cedar Lane and our long breakfasts of organic produces and whole wheat breads. If there is one thing my family doesn’t complain about, it is the porch and the view of the yard, the apple trees that grow bigger everyday. The way my mother willingly pays our gardener to make it perfect: cut grass and excess branches. She loves the greenery more than the house itself. Daddy, the quietest out of everyone, tells Mom to appreciate it when she complains about the tedious tasks of keeping a house. She frowns and says she does. We try to believe her.
I also love the smell of candles on summer nights when my sister gets into that special mood. It’s a mood we’ve all learned to go along with; it comes with candles, silence and serenity. We find it soothing. I pick up on her habit and she always asks, “who lit the candles?” her eyes glittering. I am not sure I get the same mood, but I’ve learned to love the candles the same I became an avid coffee lover. Maybe I like loving what she does; it fills the 14-year gap between us.
Summer nights have a certain degree of sadness, especially after a rainy day. If the candles are lit, the pot of coffee still on, and the door left open, there is always that air of nostalgia that lingers. Maybe I am the only person who feels nostalgia so easily and so often. I am used to it, used to the sound of it, the smell of it, and yet I get sad. I go to sleep, trying to fight the sadness, but all my body wants to do is hold on to it.
When I leave, summer ends and Cedar becomes something else.

I am not okay. Last week I accompanied my father to his doctor. The doctor was concerned with my father’s weight loss. I sat on a chair next to the doctor, and translated the things that Daddy had trouble explaining in English. For the first time, I realized how little he understood of what the doctor was telling him. And there in that room, my Daddy was another man. He was an aging man, bony without his shirt on, his body covered in surgery scars. I was almost afraid to look at him. I thought if I looked, he would disappear right then and there. And what I would be?
I am not okay with him getting weak and me moving away, as if running away from this horrifying reality. I am not okay leaving my mother watching over him and worrying. Today, Mom told me that he saw Daddy cry over some disturbing news about Iran. I have never really seen him cry, and I don’t think Mom has either.
I am scared to leave them.
I am not okay.