Time is trivial here. I drift through my house, my feet lightly brushing against the carpet. I am a visitor and it appears as though I speak a different language now that I am back in my parents’ home. I stumble upon memories as I go through boxes in my closet; I find old letters, diaries from my first years of immigration and the sadness of the past comes back. Every thought is on paper and as I read, each word sinks in, adding another layer to my new sadness. There are many more boxes, many more letters and many more objects of the past. I tell my mother about these little discoveries, how some of them make me smile and laugh. She does not understand the meaning behind keeping such a collection. She only remarks that I should get organized. “It’s not about organization, it’s about the memories,” I argue. But my mother insists that one does not have the time to go back to such things and that if they were organized…
“Nevermind,” I say and go back to my closet of memories.
Despite the languid air I feel around me, for I am just a traveling visitor, my family reminds of the importance of time and of age. My mother believes that if she had arrived 10 years earlier, she would have been done with her business and could have possibly reached a proper age of retirement. And then there is my father, who has a sore neck from a cold because he still believes he is immune to cold weather . And my grandmother, who has white hair that she has not groomed or cut in some time, who does not hear well, who walks slowly and sleeps half the day. I am constantly reminded of life passing and that of my niece’s just beginning.
This is a house of memories, even if my mother does not remember the past. The common thread that held us together is the losses and goodbyes and the starting overs. We rebuilt ourselves just as we made a home for ourselves. And time helped us cope with our wounds even if it did not heal them. But it’s important to acknowledge what we once were: ordinary people with bigger dreams, imprisoned and looking for a way to break free.
I drift through my house, gently walking down the stairs into the kitchen, making coffee, making tea, sipping it on the porch under a half October moon as the crickets sing and my grandmother laments a disorderly kitchen. I take one of the many unfinished diaries and write a few words: languid, lament, lethargic. I look at life happening around me and the countless cups of tea that we make and the fatigue that lingers in my mother’s eyes. But before I can form a sentence on paper, someone interrupts and then it all matters, every ticking moment that will one day be just a memory.

I came on the roof to vocalize and sing. The air was fresh. It was the perfect fall night and the moon glittered, magnificent and orange and a bit creepy. I sang some of my favorite Iranian songs and a helicopter passed by and I imagined a war-zone, where bombs were going off and someone was singing one last time. I ended my song and pulled out my lighter. I smoked into the fresh, black night sky and swayed as I listened to Madonna’s “The Power of Goodbye.” There was no one there – just me, the moon and a beautiful city that hid secrets and covered the loneliness with its pretty blanket. The truth remained to be known only to those whose hearts were broken, who suffered the pain and wandered the city…and here I was on the roof, trying to let go. I could sit for hours, watching the moon, wondering the same thing I always wonder: when will it become okay?
I thought briefly, as I often due out of old habit, about Iran. But more and more, Iran becomes vague, fading into an abyss, and I no longer need to think of it. The idea of it is still somewhat shocking. The fact that it is no longer a tangible space, but a memory, a series of dreams and thoughts and people that are no longer there. Only a few remain whose names I know. And street names that I remember. But the desire to retain it, live and breathe it is no longer present in my state of mind. Even in my heart, the door is closed. There only remains the tragedy of it. It’s like a legend now, a country whose imprisoned writers escaped to tell the story.
I looked to the orange moon ahead of me, in the shape of an imperfect half circle. It was quite orange, the perfect fall color. I wondered what life would be like there, if there was one. Would it perhaps make more sense? I imagined not. I thought about the air I was now polluting, and I thought about letting go and “the power of goodbye” and all my thoughts became a mesh of smoke, rising above without ever solidifying. I bent my body backward, looking at the reversed sky, the starts shimmering, and for a moment reality disappeared.
Where am I? I wondered.