I wonder how long it will take before he stops loving me, before he stops looking at me the way he always does, before his eyes no longer spark, before he stops whispering my name while we make love. How long will it take before he stops caressing me, pressing his fingertips on my lips? His love for me will die one of these days. I will be another lollipop that he will be tired of chewing. I will be a forgotten candy, unfinished, unwrapped, laying on an empty table.
He comes in, throws his keys on a table full of unpaid bills and doesn’t look at me. I sit and watch the rain, pretending I don’t know he is there. I pretend this man is not the man I used to love, that he is not the man who never had enough of me, who could never stop kissing me. But why should I pretend? Now we are just strangers. I play with the ring on my finger, the ring that was meant to map our love for eternity, the ring that is now as meaningless as an unsolved equation. I’m thinking of selling it to an antique store or handing it off to my daughter. Or maybe I’ll throw it away like another piece of garbage. I’ll let it deteriorate with the rest of our trash; I’ll let it become dust. My daughter hates me because I’ve turned into a cold, bitter mother who is too tired to read stories or sing lullabies. My daughter hates me because I don’t look at her father when he is home, because I don’t ask him to take her horseback riding or to a movie.
My husband is gone. He left yesterday before noon when the rain began. He left me standing in the rain while I got soaked. He gave me a check for the bills and placed his wedding ring in my hand. My daughter stood behind the window and watched. I remembered the day my Daddy left. It was raining and Mama was crying inside. She cried and I watched Daddy leave with his brown brief case. But I didn’t cry as I watched my husband leave. I had no tears, no regrets and no guilt. I let the ring drop from my hand as I stepped inside. I didn’t turn around to see him get into his red Chevy, the one we bought on our wedding night. That night we were both drunk. Drunk and in love. And we thought we would always stay that way. We thought we would always sit in that Chevy and drive away to foreign towns. I didn’t turn around to see him wave to my baby daughter, my Lolita, my only love. I went inside, picked her up, kissed her and told her how much I loved her. I slept alone that night after 13 years and sold my ring the next morning.

She and I share the same kind of loneliness. We share the pleasure of drinking tea in the mornings, afternoons, evenings, and right when night falls. She sits behind her laptop and reads emails; I sit behind mine and listen to overly repeated songs. We have gotten ourselves used to the walls of this house, the tea pot that sits on the kitchen counter, the couch that has no particular odor, the balcony that we sometimes escape to when we’re tired of what’s inside.
But she doesn’t like to share her clothes, her makeup or her shoes. And I don’t like to share my pains, the fantasies I create for myself, or my fears of letting go. I used to think sisters were supposed to share everything. I used to think sisters could share everything. But I see that some things cannot be shared. Even our loneliness, despite its similarity in nature, can be differentiated.

We’re trapped inside, watching the rain pour violently, vigorously. I hate it. I don’t know about Daddy; there is so much I don’t know about the man who watched me grow, who took turns feeding me, who walks around this house, hardly speaking his mind, hardly complaining, hardly arguing. I don’t know if he feels as trapped as I feel when it rains or if he is at peace. The rain keeps pouring outside, and we watch it behind the glass windows. I don’t know when it will stop.
And I don’t know my father.

The young bride throws her bouquet. I sit back, refusing to get up, refusing to pretend that I want to catch a bouquet that means nothing to me, refusing to join the other single girls who wait impatiently.
This is another wedding where I’m simply another spectator, a girl in a pink dress who wonders why she is still single, unattended, and undesired. This is another wedding where I watch a bride who at 22 already knows what she wants, who knows who’s hands she wants to hold onto forever, who knows who’s lips she wants to kiss every night, who knows everything that some of us don’t know yet.
Maybe sometimes we just have to ignore logic, ignore consequences, ignore reasons. I wonder, if we listen to our heart and our heart only, would things work out? By ignoring all the facts and figures and rationalities, would it be possible to fall in love, be in love, whether forever or temporarily?
She strides down the aisle in her white dress, thinking of no one but him. I don’t think life could be any simpler for her…

On rainy days in New York City, men sell umbrellas for five dollars on the pretty, colorful sidewalks of Manhattan. Shoppers leave the expensive stores on 5th avenue and beggars sleep near tall roofs, under the sound of thunderstorms. But the city never sleeps; the city never dies.
As I observe the city in between water droplets, I find myself enjoying the rain. I find myself happy, despite the fact that I’m stepping into many puddles of dirty water with my flip flops. I find myself liking a rain that I most often hate. Could it be that I’m immune to my usual dislikes once I’m in the city?
I bid the wet city au revoir and gather my belongings to head back to Virginia. There is only one thing on my mind: I’m coming back, even in the pouring rain…
One day, when I’m ready, when I’m over my fears and doubts, one day when the roads are clear, I’ll pack a suitcase and I’ll head to the city. If I’m still in love with it, I’ll stay. I’ll unpack and I’ll sleep under the sound of running engines and the guitar that the poor man plays on the street.
I’ll sleep while rain pours outside in a sleepless, restless city.

I like the sound of thunder; it’s intoxicating. I am writing a short note tonight, as rain begins to pour, to say that I’ll be in New York City tomorrow afternoon. I will have no access to the internet despite my deep attachment to its wonders. So I won’t be able to write how intoxicating the sound of the city is or how exhilarating it is to walk on 5th avenue. But once I get back on Monday night, I will post something about it.
Who knows, maybe this time I’ll see something new…

Amid the long traffics, the hot afternoons and the polluted streets of Tehran, my brother and his wife search for a new apartment. Soon, they will move out of a sold home. Mom is worried. Apartments are expensive and replacing an old home is far too hard. How do you recreate a home?
I’m tearing my nails and I still can’t accept the inevitability of what’s lost. What’s lost is a solid, concrete home and no matter how good of a memory I have, I won’t ever be able to revisit it. I won’t be able to trace the walls, the doors, the windows.
I can’t cry. The emptiness I feel does not require tears. The emptiness I feel requires nothing. No sadness, no melancholy, no sorrow…just emptiness, like an empty home that has no owner, like a home that has value only in dollars and cents.
Sold.

I remember a bride and a groom, not distinctly clear figures but rather silhouettes. That day I was in Manhattan, near Central Park with my family. The day was that of a breezy, summer afternoon and a bride and groom were being photographed by a birch tree. She was of Asian descent, standing against the tree, her veil covering her vulnerable eyes, like a shield that protects the innocent.
Even then at 16, I knew that I preferred the comfort of my t-shirt and jeans over that long, torturous, puffy gown. A gown that mopped the ground and with it, picked up tiny pieces of grass and dirt particles along the way. A gown that fit her small body so perfectly that no one, not even the skilled photographer could re-define, re-invent, reshape. A gown that was too pure, too refined in elegance to surmount.
I watched that angelic figure from a far and focused my own lens on her as the photographer did with his. Her mystery and obscurity was captivating, but only for the moment in which I shot the picture. Beyond that lens, she meant nothing to me; she was just a figure, a silhouette in a white gown. And I…
I would never be a bride.

I was seven and Daddy woke me up for school. He made my lunch with butter and mom’s homemade jams, then he ironed my white scarf. Once, he left the hot iron on one of my doll blankets; the iron’s stain never came off. Daddy and I crossed the street and he never let go of my hand. But he knew I would grow up one day. He knew that one day, I wouldn’t need to hold on to his hand.
I want to thank all the Dads who hold their children’s hands, who take them to soccer practice and cheer from the benches. I want to thank the fathers who kiss their children every night before they go to bed and sit on the edge of their beds before they fall asleep. I want to thank the Dads who buy ice-cream on their way home from work and play catch with their kids at dusk.
Thank you Daddy for cheering me, for never ceasing to smile, for being my rock. Thank you for being my father, my guardian angel.
Love,
Your little girl

The night is hot and my blouse is unbuttoned half way.
I’m thinking of sleeping in a hotel room, under fresh, clean, new covers, under a foreign roof. I miss the aura of unknown territories, the smell of unfamiliar beds and bleached sheets.
The night is hot, stale, decayed, hackneyed…I feel out of place, like a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit, like a misplaced card.
I’m thinking of that untouched room, the one that the maid has just finished cleaning, the one with windows that open to a dark, black midnight sky.
The night is hot. I take off the stale blouse and slip under the covers; I’m tainted by every inch of my old, damaged bed.