The day of Madarjoon’s funeral, everyone, except my older brother and I, left for the cemetery. I remember vaguely that my brother offered to take me to an arts museum, or something of that sort. I refused, not because I was in mourning, for I did not know such a thing, but because everyone was gone elsewhere. I don’t recall if he took me to the cemetery in the end, but I have a picture in my head, one of myself, standing by the window, looking down below to an empty kooche, feeling alienated.
A month or so later, there was a gathering for Madarjoon, an anniversary. Everyone was there. First cousins, second cousins, distant cousins, and their children. I was five, chasing a playmate in a foolish game, away from the mourners who prayed and cried in the honor of Madar. The house was filled with black chadors and scarves. There was chatter, bitterly loud and indecipherable. Someone must have been serving the guests dates as a traditional funeral sweet.
Out in the stairway, Yasaman, the annoying playmate, was replacing all the shoes, separating pairs, taking them upstairs and hiding them. I was outraged. I knew she had taken my shoe for I couldn’t find it among all the ugly black heels and sandals. I chased her up the stairs and demanded to have them back. I don’t remember what happened after that. I don’t know if I found them or if she gave them back. In either case, I went back inside to get away from her.
The last thing I remember is passing by Madar’s room. There were a few faces I recognized; among them were my sister’s and a second cousin’s. I watched them in awe for I had never seen them cry like that, sobbing in anguish. I wondered to myself if I needed to do the same, if I needed to be there like them, crying and mourning. But I couldn’t cry, and before I could think anything else, Yasaman pulled my hand for another game of chase.