She is going to paint her new room orange. Orange is a brilliant color, a fall color, the color of October, the color of her headscarf. I tell her that change is good, that moving to a new house is an exciting renewal. And she says it won’t be the same. You won’t smell the same old paint, or the damp wood of the terrace, or the buried smell of antiquity of a place you’ve lived in for 10 years. Ten years, she says, and looks at me with her sharp green eyes.
She is right. When you leave a home, you never hear the same sounds, the sounds that put you to sleep, the cracking noise of the doors opening and shutting. You won’t hear the walls that spoke your fears and pains. You won’t feel the same warmness, the same heat. You won’t find the old memories, the memories you built out of every object, out of the details of your mother’s skirt against the kitchen wall. You won’t breathe the same air. You won’t be the same.
Orange is a beautiful color for you Nura, I say. I will help you paint your room. I want you to build new memories. I want you to call it home. Call it home Nura.
So I tell her about my home. I tell her that H and Maman sold my home in Tehran and then they told me over the phone. And my sister and I cried because we felt homeless. I tell her that I will never get to see it again. I will never get to feel and touch and smell and breathe and understand home again.
But we learn to move on. We learn to love again. To feel again. To rebuild our dreams, our memories, our faiths. We learn because we adapt and we get used to things. We simply get used to it.
Orange. It will be perfect, Nura. Just perfect.
They are moving out this week. She is packing her memories. She is packing the bits and pieces into a suitcase. And her new room will be orange because she is an October baby.

I like the sound of my heels as they go click-click. I am eight years old and the sound of my shoes already makes me feel like a woman. I suddenly have power in a patriarchal world where women are harassed on street corners, beaten for their uncovered hair and sometimes jailed for raising their voices. I suddenly have power and I feel pride as I hear my shoes go click-click. I am not looking up. I am holding Maman’s hand, my head down, watching the red and back shoes that are styled with a ribbon. We are headed to dinner at a relative’s. The streets are dirty with puddles of rainwater and neglected trash bags that attract hungry street cats. I am careful not to step in the puddles so as not to dirty my shoes. The rain has stopped and I only hear the constant click-click with every step. I am eight and I am making a statement with my shoes; I am speaking through them, walking bravely, disregarding my mother’s warnings about tripping or falling. She says I am too young to wear such shoes, that I am only a little girl.
We arrive at a house and Maman tells me that I must take my shoes off once we are inside. I want to protest to keep them on, but I obey. I do as I am told, powerless without the click-click sound.

He was in his office on a rather mundane afternoon, sipping a cold coffee, poking at his left over cigar in the ashtray. He was bored. There were no stories. Nothing was happening in Seattle. There was no news to cover, no burning house, no accident, no shooting. The city was as tranquil as the Washington River and reporter Mathew Cantwell was restless. He continued to poke at his cigar when he heard a knock on the door.
“Come in,” he said quietly, as if he were speaking to himself.
A young woman walked in. She was tall, about 5’7, a Coach bag on her shoulders, wearing black boots and a tight skirt that came just above the knees. She was not beautiful, but she had killer eyes that were shockingly captivating. She held him in with her eyes for a brief moment, as if she’d caught him, captured him. Then she began to say something and her voice was rough, husky, masculine. She had a deep Italian accent as if she’d just walked out of the streets of Rome. He wanted to ask so many questions: who was she, was she a reporter, a tourist whom he’d interview, a new boss?
“I am sorry to barge in like this Mr. Cantwell, but I was told you are the hard-news reporter,” she said, looking straight at his bewildered eyes.
“Ah yes, I am. You can call me Mat.”
He suddenly realized that he should probably shake hands with the girl. So he stood, rather awkwardly, extended his arm and they shook hands. He felt something sharp as he pulled his hand away; it was her blue stone ring that he’d felt. The girl introduced herself as Electra.
“Mr. Cant…Mat, I will be your new assistant. You do need an assistant, don’t you?” she asked, still standing.
“Of course,” he said and noticed that the poor girl was still standing, “please sit Electra. You came to a good place. There is always something happening in Seattle!” he exclaimed, except today, he wanted to say. Nothing was happening today.
“Glad to hear that. You know, I love Seattle. It’s perfect. I love the rain,” she said, crossing her bare legs, adjusting her glasses.
She did not have perfect hair. Her hair was thin, with no volume, just straight and thin. Her face was plain, but her lips were full. She wore a bare minimum of makeup, a touch of mascara and a clear gloss. Mat knew what to look for on a woman’s face. His wife was constantly looking at the mirror, complaining about her straight lashes that never curled up, about her lips that were too thin, about her freckles that she covered with powder and foundation.
“I hope you don’t smoke,” Electra said.
“Pardon?”
Mat was not listening. He was looking at her eyes that had been carefully shaped with dark eyeliner. He was looking at how familiar she looked, and yet how different she was from his wife Meredith.
“I see your ashtray. It’s just that I hate smoke, it makes me dizzy.”
“Oh, no worries. I’m quitting,” he said, smiling at her reassuringly. He had no idea that he was quitting but felt that it would be a good day to start.
Electra looked at her wristwatch, uncrossed her legs, folded her arms across her chest and waited.
“When will you start?” Mat asked.
“I was told next Monday.”
“Great! See you then,” he said, watching Electra as she gracefully rose from her chair.
He thought about Meredith. Meredith was beautiful. She had many imperfections. But Mat loved those imperfections. He loved her straight, long lashes, her thin, dry lips. He loved the freckles beneath her eyes. He loved Meredith. They were happy together. They were complete. He completed her lifer. She no longer suffered from loneliness and depression. He cured her insomnia and her constant migraines. She completed his life by bringing him out of his fatigue and lack of enthusiasm for the little things that happened in life. She taught him how to be happy when it rained and everything was a wreck. She taught him the ways in which one could be satisfied with the most imperfect life, with relentless rain and thunder, with uneventful mornings and afternoons, with the sleepless nights of Seattle life.
Mat poked at his cigar again. He pulled out his Marlboro pack from the inside pocket of his coat and threw it in the trash. He then picked up his briefcase and walked out of his office.
There were violent winds and rain as he stepped out. He would still buy his wife flowers and a bottle of red wine. He would have an amazing night with the only woman in his life.

Yesterday I became the rain. I became the rain that tapped on my window and broke the silence. I became the rain that clustered in puddles and ran on my windowsill like a river. I became the smell of rain, the fresh aura of spring, the aftermath of winter and the melted snow. I became the slush and mud in rain puddles; I became the thunder that cut the sky in half.
When you become the rain, everything is so light, so weightless that you begin to float. You begin to think that you are just air, a single atom of oxygen. And the lightness of being becomes a bearable enticement.
Life is light when you are the rain. When you are free. When you have unwrapped yourself from everything that wraps you in, that beholds you. And this lightness of being makes breathing a lot easier…
It’s like lust, the lightness. It’s uncomplicated, untangled, unwrapped, unraveled. It’s like breathing without working the muscles of the heart. It’s like dreaming. It’s erotic and sinful and unruly. It’s the perfect intoxication, the lightness of being.

There was rainwater in his shoes. There were mud and slush on his pants. He was not speaking. He was standing by the door, holding his shoes with his left hand as water dripped on the mahogany carpet. My father’s silence was heavier than his dripping, wet rain coat, heavier than the suitcases we’d packed for Mama, heavier than the carpets and sofas and chairs, heavier than the rooftop, heavier than the house itself.
There was rainwater around the corners of his glasses. There was rainwater in his hat. Behind his round glasses I could see his wet eyes. I could not tell if the droplets on his wrinkled face were rain or tears or both.
He finally approached us and we stood. He was still holding his wet shoes.
“Your Mama,” he began but paused.
There was an unbearable silence again. Too heavy to explain, too heavy to break through. Too heavy for my 7 year-old brother.
“Your Mama is not coming back,” he finished and then fell on his knees, dropping his shoes, burying his face in his hands as if to hide his shame, his tears, his powerlessness, his failure.
It was heavy. The silence and the sobs of my father who no longer stood, no longer held us, no longer spoke.
We said nothing. My brother stared at my father. I went over to my father and touched his coarse hands. And then I felt my own tears, my own fears, and the heaviness of my weakness. I felt the weight of my father’s head on my shoulders; I felt the heaviness of our pain, our loss, our shame.
My brother still stood and understood nothing. He did not understand the heaviness of silence, the heaviness of pain, the heaviness of tears.

The world is sad. Like when you watch an old woman whose face is distorted, twisted in wrinkles, her eyes small and fragile, the eyeballs foggy and lifeless, the red veins swimming around the corners. The world is sad when you see a little child who gets no attention, whose eyes are full of fear and turmoil, whose lips are parted, struggling to speak and be heard.
These are strangers I see. Sad stranger whose lives are more bizarre, more strange and convoluted than the world itself. These are strangers that are tangled in the web of a sad world, an unbearable, ugly world.
I was at the doctor’s office yesterday, waiting to get a vaccine for cervical cancer, the new one they show on commercials. I was annoyed because my appointment was at 1 and the doctor didn’t see me until 1:45. While I waited, I saw an old man who walked with a cane with his sunglasses, his son by his side. And I saw an old woman who was applying cream to her lifeless hands full of wrinkles and soars. Her older daughter was asking her in Spanish if she was in pain. The old lady said yes, she was in pain and it burned. I was sad and I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to get up and leave and forget the stupid vaccine.
Then there came a guy, senor Carlos who wore a black leather jacket and dark blue jeans. He had been in a car accident earlier and was there to have himself checked, probably for minor injuries since we were in a clinic. He spoke in broken English to someone on the other line about how he hadn’t been able to go to work. I think he was speaking about damages and insurance. I am not sure.
I went inside finally and got the stupid vaccination. I enjoyed the momentary sensation I got from the pain that went through my body. And I felt sorry for the world. For its sad people. I felt sorry that people were in so much pain, waiting to be cured, helped, picked up, and I was sitting there for a stupid vaccine. I hated myself.

Maj and her relatives were on a train to Mash-had, the city where Imam Reza’s grave lies, where masses of people go to pray in his mosque. Maj’s family occupied one cabin, her husband’s family the other. Her in-law’s cabin was packed with men who smoked and discussed politics. They were talking about the revolution and the new regime. There no longer exited a king. Now they had the religious clergy who ruled. Maj was quietly listening. She had her own plans, her own dreams of what the country needed. She was a proper young woman of 31, a mother to three children. This was no place for her.
The train moved slowly, passing mountains and farmlands and herds of sheep. They were moving away from Tehran, away from their home, away from the revolution they had helped spark.
Maj did something unexpected then. As the men chattered and smoked and played cards, Maj grabbed a cigarette out of Mr. Mohseni’s hand, and walked over to where her mother and aunts had gathered. She pushed the doors aside, blew three puffs of smoke that circled the tiny cabin, mischievously smiling as they yelled and screamed at her.
The men had stopped playing, anticipating what Maj was about to do. She returned then, coolly placing the cigar between Mr. Mohseni’s fingers. There was a moment of pause as Maj’s husband came to her side. No one said a word. And then he said, “That’s my girl!”
They all laughed and applauded Maj as she sat herself down. Another round of cards; this time, Maj joined in.

The oceans have been my barriers for years now, depriving me of what lies beyond them. The oceans are my borders, borders that I cannot cross, that I cannot break. There are names that I have called out to. But what I’ve said has been lost in the waves. What I’ve written has been buried beneath the sand dunes. The infinite oceans will always stand in my way, and I will be forever trapped on the other side. There are no boats, no ships to take me back home. I have a brother on the other side. I have forgotten how to talk to him. How to define this deep knot in my throat. How to ask the infinite questions that one can ask. I blame the oceans, the waves, the sands, the stones.
I have been lonely on this side. I like to sit by the ocean, watch the waves, the currents, burry my feet under the warm sand, close my eyes, and imagine that home is right there, within my reach. I like to imagine that we are talking about what we never talked about. I like to imagine that we are talking about the feelings we have kept inside.
Maybe if I could drown inside the waves. Maybe if I could travel on the currents. Maybe if I could be the ocean. If only I could.
I have been writing for what seems like eternity and I am still on the other side and the oceans are still my barriers and I am still waiting. Waiting to cross. Waiting to escape this state of nostalgia that has plagued my soul.

I was headed to see Ma in the hospital. It was my turn that week. My turn to change the water in the vase of roses. My turn to open the blinds and sit by her side. My turn to comb her hair and tell her about how everything was so fucked up because she was gone. Ma had been in a coma for five months. And none of us knew if she’d ever return to us again.
I was headed to the hospital when I ran into Sophie. She was still pretty, her eyes sharper than usual, sparkling, glittering in the sun. She had a headband on her head, a bag on her shoulders, holding a cup of coffee and a cigarette. I hadn’t seen her in two years and she was still the same girl I’d fallen in love with.
“Sophie!” I yelled because I’d thought I’d never see her again when we broke up.
“Hello there Sebastian,” she said with her penetrating eyes that always killed me.
Her smile was cold. Her hello was feigned. It was as if I was talking to a dead soul. This wasn’t the Sophie I fell in love with. This wasn’t the Sophie who I kissed and caressed. This was not the Sophie I loved.
“I see that you’re a smoker now. I thought you hated cigars,” I said.
She looked at her cigarette, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “Well, life’s a bitch Sebastian. Besides, who says it’s bad for you?”
I didn’t get it. Who was this girl? What had happened in the last two years since our break up? I had figured she’d be happier. It was her after all who said we should end it. She was the one who was tired of our relationship that seemed unexciting and pointless.
“Are you happy?” I asked.
“Define happiness for me. If it’s this world, this life, this…” she didn’t go on. She just stared off to a distance and it reminded me of the days we were together.
We really were miserable when we were together. Sophie was a writer. She had her own rules, her own world of fantasies. She ended it, she said, because I didn’t get her. I didn’t get what went inside her head or why she’d be really happy one day, and then crying the next. I didn’t get her thoughts. I didn’t get her because she wouldn’t let me. She said only one person got her and it wasn’t me and it would never be me. And I fought for her, I did. I fought and I tried to break in, to break those walls she’d built around herself, but I wasn’t strong enough. So she ended it because she was sure I’d never get her.
“My mother has been in a coma for the past five months. My brothers and I take turns visiting her. We bring her fresh flowers every week and change their water. We comb her hair and put lotion on her hands. We talk to her because the doctors say it’s good for us and for her. I am turning 21 tomorrow and I don’t know how you define happiness. But I know that she’s gonna wake up soon and we’ll be a family again and I’ll finish college and get some degree and move on. It’s this life. It’s the way it is you know. But I am happy because I still got a long way ahead and Ma will be waiting to see me go on.”
Sophie said nothing. She looked sad, like real sadness, almost as if she’d break and cry. But she stood silent and then took my hand. She walked me to the hospital that day and helped me change the water. She held my mother’s hands and placed them in mine. Then, she left. And we never ran into each other again.

She takes my hand as I eat her freshly cooked rice, scrutinizes my fingers and then tells me that they are like Mina’s. I have long, slender fingers. People compliment them. They say they are pretty and ladylike. Mina had the same fingers. I wonder if she ever bit her nails or torn them like I do. I wonder if she left them unpolished and short. It is a simple resemblance, minor, and maybe not of great significance. But it makes Grandma happy, knowing that her granddaughter can somehow be connected to her past, to the daughter and the sons she lost. That somehow I can bring them closer to her by having the same shape of brows or eyes or fingers. That somehow, I can be a bridge to her abandoned past.
Grandma lets go of my hand and sighs. She forgets them again, and they become fond memories of long ago. I am powerless. But perhaps if I pronounce their names and learn their faces, I can bring them to life, temporarily. And then I can see Mina, polishing her nails, Grandma holding them, not willing to let them slip away.