She prays by the living room table in her colorful, flowered head scarf while the Franks have tea. It’s Tuesday evening and Grandma M is getting bored of America and the mundane routines of her daughter’s family. She notices that Mr. Frank hardly speaks and when he does, she never hears him. When he doesn’t speak, he reads newspapers or falls asleep on the couch. Her youngest granddaughter spends most of her time in a room that is never neat, sitting on her unmade bed with a laptop on her legs. Grandma M wants to take walks outside, but is afraid of approaching strangers who might converse with her in English. Nothing is familiar to her, not Manchester Street, not the Safeway Grocery store or the Greek Church on the other end of Manchester Street.
Earlier in the morning, she practiced the alphabet with her youngest granddaughter, and then when her granddaughter returned to her room, she practiced writing her A’s and B’s some more. When noon came, she went off to make lunch, searching the cabinets for cooking pans and dishes. Cooking, she decided, was the one thing that required no English.
As they drink tea, she confirms that she won’t be staying for long.
“I am too much trouble for you guys,” she says and Mrs. Frank frowns, reassuring her mother that she is wanted here and that she should not think such things.
Perhaps America is too complicated at this moment and the girls aren’t always there to make her happy and listen to her stories. But Grandma M is not ready to go back yet; she is too excited to learn English, to be intermingled with American pleasures.

He left the cemetery disoriented, his eyes red, and his hands numb from the cold. A head-ache that had started in the plane was now a strong, constant banging inside his head. There was no one in the graveyard as he left, even the crows had disappeared. He decided to take a slow walk on a nearby road to clear his head. Tomorrow morning his students would be expecting him back; he had to return. Besides, staying in Manhattan where he would be constantly reminded of her would do him no good. He had to get back to his life, to Harvard. He had to work on his dissertation and finally publish his writings.
By the time he reached an almost empty bar, he had walked 10 blocks. Tired, he ordered a whiskey and settled himself on a stool, pulling out his wallet. He was there for hours, listening to strangers next to him who were deep in conversation. He listened to country songs that played over and over again on an old radio. He couldn’t remember why he never had that coffee with her before she left for New York. He couldn’t remember why he had stopped emailing her, why he pushed her away. Was it because he was afraid he would get attached? Was it because he had feelings that were different and new, ones he couldn’t figure out? Or was it because he knew she was emotional and dependent and that if he would let her, she would get too close, too involved in his life outside the Harvard walls?
The thoughts that ran in his mind became too convoluted, complicated and intangible. The alcohol wasn’t allowing him to think straight, to figure out what it was that he felt for her all those years, and whether his feelings were strong enough to be called love.
He finished his last glass and finally got up, almost tripping over a chair; he was too drunk and dizzy from the booze. He had forgotten her, had forgotten why he was in a dirty city that sickened him. And he walked out of the bar, drunk, disoriented, barely able to keep himself together. It was still snowing and he desperately wished to be back in Boston.

Grandma M is here now and the Franks are giving her a tour of the city. She seems content with walking, even if she has to carry her cane. She is content with drinking tea out of huge American mugs, with watching her granddaughters dress in colorful outfits, with learning about what her daughter does for a living. In the evenings when the Franks gather for tea, Grandma M tells them stories of the past, of those who’ve touched her life, of her trips to India and Moscow. The girls listen to their Grandma as she recounts those memories with every little detail, one story leading to another. For the Franks, it seems as if Grandma M has brought back what they all left behind, Tehran.

The tomb stones, the grass, his shoes were all covered in snow. The sky was red, the sun was gone, and he felt numb, not terribly cold, just numb. He felt a tear on his cheek and quickly brushed it off with his sleeve. She had been in love with him and he had never known. He sat on the wet grass by a cross-shaped grave and stared off into the distance where he could see the mourners disappearing into their cars, back to their routines. He had cancelled class, speeded to the air port for a flight to New York, almost gotten hit by a mad cab driver, and was now sitting on wet grass with his new Banana Republic pants.
Hours passed and he forgot the time. Or perhaps he didn’t care to look at his watch, to see if was time for lunch or for supper. He got up, shook off the snow from his pants, cleared his glasses with his shirt and walked to where the crows had gathered. Her grave was a simple, grey stone with her name embedded in the middle. He looked at it, bent down, kneeling, and touched it with his finger tips. And then when the crows flew away, and the snow stopped, and the sky became dark, he broke down and silently cried.

When she was alone in the metro or on the bus, when she had no one to talk to, when there was nothing else to think about, she thought of him. She thought of him in that big lecture room, talking about cells and atoms, looking at her sometimes but never for answers. She imagined him appearing out of the crowd that hurriedly got on the bus, wearing a long coat, his glasses slightly out of place, looking for a seat.
She drove off to New York, thinking again, picturing the class and him walking from corner to corner, not sitting still. He never sat in one place; he preferred to walk around. The light turned red and she almost wished to turn around, and go back to the University, find him and tell him that she cared too much. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t care for a cup of coffee, that it was really him she wanted to see, him, the man who told her she was great.
And then rain started pouring, heavily, aggressively. She couldn’t hold her tears anymore so she let herself cry. She had been waiting too long for this day, too many times, too many different ways. She had pictured a sunny afternoon with a cool breeze, the sky a baby blue, and the roads clear, inviting. But this was nothing like that picture.
She drove passively, no longer watching road signs, crying, searching for tissues in the dashboard. By the time she reached the city, she was too tired to think. That night was her first night alone in a big city, away from home, away from Boston and the bittersweet memories.

In 10 minutes his students would walk in with their notebooks, ready to write every word he said. The classroom was too hot; the heat was stuck on high. He decided that he had just enough time to check his email, the weather perhaps and browse the web a bit. He had one new email in his inbox and it was from his former Biology student. She was a sweet girl who emailed him quite regularly, checking on him, keeping in touch. He opened the email, expecting a long page of random talk, of sentences that always made him laugh, smile. But this email was unusually short, simply a note of good-bye. “I am finally leaving. New York will love me; I just know it. Have coffee with me at 12 on the 18th so I can say good-bye. You know where.” He took note of the date on his note pad and closed the email page. He was happy that she had finally found what she wanted. He had always wanted the best for her, knowing she was capable of doing anything she wanted.
On the 18th, there was a long meeting for the faculty that ran until 1. As he left the meeting, he received a call from a friend he had not spoken with in years. He took the call and did not check the time. An hour later, he finished his conversation, went back to his office, and paused. He knew he was forgetting something.
He did not leave the building until 2:45 and suddenly he remembered.

She left Boston with a heavy heart on a sunny afternoon. It was the last day of autumn and the bare trees no longer provided her with a cool shade. Her suitcases were packed, her biology books neatly positioned among her clothes. She was leaving for New York City to experience city life, to explore the possibilities of New York, to live on the 20th floor of an apartment building right in the middle of Manhattan. She wanted to taste life, the life of a dreamer.
She had emailed him two days before her departure, a short message that only indicated a date and time and a request for a quick coffee to say good-bye. She did not receive an email and refused to call him. She assumed that he was busy; finals were coming up and he was, after all, a professor at Harvard with lots on his hand. She had hoped to see him, to tell him that he too had made her life, that he too had taught her to be somebody, to be amazing and true to herself.
The university had never looked more glorious to her than it did now. She was in love with it, with its classrooms, with the friends she had made, with the professors she had met. She stood, watching the window to his classroom, desperately hoping that he would approach it, perhaps to feel the air or to refresh his room. It was 10 minutes past 2 and she could no longer waste any more time.
She drove off, making a quick stop at the nearest Starbucks. She needed one last taste of her hometown. She made a toast to herself and prayed that it wouldn’t rain in the city.

Liv had a little too much to drink at V’s Christmas party. V’s husband was the bartender of the night, serving drinks to the girls, preparing the fire so they could keep warm on the deck. The girls were her colleagues, young college students, and most underage. They danced and drank and had a good time. As Liv went up the stairs where the managers sat around, eating turkey sandwiches, talking about their lives, she started feeling dizzy. The alcohol was beginning to settle in.
The next day Liv was in desperate need for caffeine to keep her body awake and her mind focused. Her bills were staggering again; she had spent too much on a pair of boots. She wanted to go back to bed and dream for the rest of the afternoon.
Liv picked up her cell phone, but decided not to call him.

MR. FRANK CAME home early from work on a Wednesday afternoon. It was around 4 p.m. and he could hear music playing in his daughter’s room. He didn’t like Western music; it was not his taste. He found it loud and incomprehensible. Mrs. Frank had not returned from work yet and there was no one else in the house but his daughter. As he took off his black shoes, he heard the water boiling on the stove. “Eve!” he yelled out, but of course Eve did not hear him since the music was playing too loudly. Mr. Frank became irritated again but went to the kitchen himself and turned off the stove. “Hi Daddy” Eve was standing by the dishwasher, giving him a big smile like she was a little girl of seven again. Mr. Frank wanted to say something regarding the music or the water that was boiling rigorously. But he simply smiled at his soon-to-be 19 year-old daughter and said “hi beautiful”.

He received an email from a former Harvard student and his heart nearly stopped. In a state of utter shock and disbelief, he closed the email, then reopened it, unable to grasp the words. He canceled his Biology class and without any formal announcement, left his office.
Hours later, he found himself in the airport, buying a ticket to New York. It was early December and the snow had already accumulated in Manhattan, reaching several inches high. Disoriented, he held the ticket firmly in his numb hand, wondering what it meant. How long had it been since they had last spoken? Four years ago, he muttered. It had been four years since they had last spoken.
With the snow falling and the crows flying over the tombstones, the cemetery was a surreal picture. The girl’s family was gathered in one corner, heads down, the mother looking into space with not a single tear on her face. At another corner, her friends were standing, some crying, others quietly mourning.
He stood by a tree, watching this picture, unsure of his position. Before he could make up his mind, his former student approached him, her eyes swollen and red.
“She was in love with you,” she said and walked away.