He said every person is a universe. When two people meet, they are exploring one another’s intimate spaces, their individual stories, fears, dreams, inspirations and uncertainties. Whether the two continue this exploration is up to them. Once one of them leaves, however, they are strangers again, bereft of the memories they created or where going to create, bereft of the bond they shared or could have shared, bereft of the words they exchanged or the stories they would write together. They become another passerby on a street corner who is walking the dog or stopping at a deli to buy a newspaper and a cup of coffee. They become the stranger who is disconnected, who moves farther and farther away until he becomes a faded memory, or perhaps completely forgotten.
New York is a disconnected city of beautiful strangers. Every discovery, every encounter, every exploration of another person’s universe is a magical journey. Yet every connection is a risk, for many decide to leave the city. Some simply walk away without warning; others betray your trust and leave a gaping hole in your open heart. The sidewalks are like the gates in an airport; you bump into someone who can share the same destination with you, travel within your personal universe, take flight with you in your sorrows and your riveting pleasures.
New York is a city of drifters, of hopeless romantics, of dreamers, artists, dancers, poets, writers and musicians. Many of them can’t make or keep promises. Most love the adventure, the thrill of discovering another person like them. They like the risk of opening their hearts, their unpublished books, their unfinished compositions, their unwritten songs. They like the pain even when it’s over, for it gives their existence meaning; it gives them a reason to revert to old habits- the smoking after their morning coffee, after the unfinished lunch meal, after drinking from the bottle of whiskey they keep hidden. And they go on breaking hearts because they give up on love and because they believe no one is going to keep a promise, or maybe because it’s just easier to be mistrusting.
Every person is a universe of secrets; be careful whose secrets you unravel.

My father’s body is a field of scars. His surgery scars run deep on his chest, his abdomen, his neck and knees. The one on his chest right below his heart, protrudes outward; it forever remains on his skin like a permanent stain. But the invisible scars that no one sees are those that lurk behind his small eyes, underneath the wrinkles, the moles, the lines above his brows.
My father’s hands too are colored with scars. As a child, I used to press my hand against my father’s and we laughed at the difference in size. I held his hands as he walked me to school and crossed the roads in the silence that we both shared and would continue to share as I grew up. His hands are rough, not only because of age and their sensitivity to cold, but also because they bear the weight of separation, immigration and loss. In childhood, my father was immortal. It wasn’t until after immigration, after the surgeries and the strict diets that turned my once strong father into a fragile man where I learned to accept his mortality. Often in my dreams, he disappears and I wake up crying, and the dream haunts me for the rest of the day.
My father’s body is a field of scars. In our house in Virginia, he tends the yard, takes out the trash, checks the mail every afternoon when he returns from work and solves crossword puzzles in an Iranian newspaper. He washes the dishes harshly with a sponge before putting them in the dishwasher; my family gave up arguing with him over this. He lays out plates and silverware on the dining room tables of the Marriott Hotel and accumulates bruises on his arms and knees. When I ask about them, my father smiles and says, “I must have run into something again.”
My father is immune to pain; he is the survivor of a revolution in which he did not voluntarily participate. My father’s hands now hold his eight-month-old granddaughter. In his arms, my niece laughs and my father returns the laughter – the same kind he has shared with me for 24 years. In family discussions, my father is usually absent; he listens and watches but none of us are sure if he is really there. When something worries him like when he forgets where he placed the car keys or when he is lost while driving, my father whistles. And though his memory is weak, his vision imperfect, his body thin, he displays a contentment that leaves me at awe.
My father’s body is a field of scars, and I write to unravel them.

I miss A sometimes. I’ll be waiting at the station, and a boy will walk out of a train with his backpack, reminding me of A who always carried one. There is comfort in remembering someone who looked forward to seeing me, who thought he could have me, someone who waited for me. There is comfort in remembering his apartment and the unfamiliar setting that, for a short while, became familiar. There is comfort in remembering him offering me a plate of chicken for dinner or him introducing me to his sister, who reminds him to be a gentleman and walk me to the subway at the end of the night. There is comfort in remembering the kisses we shared, and the time I slept next to him and remained awake all night listening to his breathing, and learning of his sudden, jolting movements that worried me. There is comfort in remembering those early evenings where we sat across from each other at a coffee shop, looking at magazines and thinking out loud. And that time he told me he thought he knew my mother when I talked about her. There is comfort in remembering his face, even those cold eyes that met mine when it was all over—that piercing, betrayed look that I would always remember.
I miss A sometimes as I drift through the streets of Manhattan, on the train going over the bridge back to Brooklyn, at a Spanish café with dim lights, at my apartment when I write and think of his writing-how the first time he read something out loud I was struck by the honesty and wit his words carried. I missed him the day I passed the aquarium store where he told me about his fondness for fish. I walked across the Williamsburg bridge and remembered our walk that Sunday morning where we sat on a bench facing the river after we crossed over. I sat on the same bench and pictured us sitting there together, him thinking he had a future with me. I sat there and watched the sunset and he became a bittersweet memory- bitter for my betrayal, sweet for the memories we shared.
I remember him saying New York was unfit for him, and I remember not understanding what he meant. There is comfort in knowing that I understand him now, years later, that I comprehend the depth of loneliness one can feel in such a city.
There is comfort in missing someone, but then there is the emptiness yet to be filled.