As a kid, I loved going on our roof. My little cousin and I used to play hopscotch with a piece of chalk. Sometimes I took my pots and pans and placed them on the edge of the walls. Then I poured water in them and pretended to make soup for my mom or imaginary guests.
That was then, when home was a brownish three-story building, a roof to watch the sky from, a window to the outside world.
Now, our apartment is being sold to a family of six. There are three college boys and a little girl. They’re going to be the first strangers of our building.
My aunt cries because strangers are moving in, because she won’t be going up our stairs, saying hello to us. My aunt cries while newcomers walk up to our apartment and unpack their belongings.
I’m not okay with this. I’m not okay with this change. I picture my house in my head and replay what I remember of it. But there are gaps, holes that need to be filled. How do you fix a delapidated image?
That home was a key, a key to the streets and valleys of Tehran, a key to eleven years of childhood.
I picture my uncle, locking the entrance door late at night when everyone is asleep. What is he thinking? How many more times will he get to put the lock on before he too leaves?
I hope that little girl won’t have to watch her family break apart like I did. I hope she feels welcomed into our little home. I hope she feels safe, safe enough to call it…home.