This morning when I stepped out of the apartment, I smelled fall. It was the same smell when I was in Tehran and my mother walked me to school. It was a particular smell, somewhat sad because you knew that winter would arrive soon, and then there was the silence of those early mornings, a certain deadness surrounding the air. The hardest part was when my mother let my hand go, and I joined the rest of the girls in terribly dark uniforms in the school’s backyard. I always wanted to be a grown up even then because I couldn’t bare the childhood fears, the inability to escape school grounds, the inability to express emotions and feelings in any way. I didn’t yet know that growing up had its own loneliness.
On my walk to the subway this morning, I called my mother and told her about the smell. She immediately said, “the smell of fall.” I told her my new decisions, and she said whatever I decide is for the best. A sense of relief came over me, for I realized that even now as I stood alone, and no longer a child going to school, my mother’s words still made it all better. As if she had never left, as if we were still there on those empty streets, as if nothing had changed. And yet I knew that we had both changed, and that we were much better now, much more experienced, much more free.
I wished her a good day and walked down the steps underground to the subway, my lungs heavy with the smell of fall.

My friends compliment my father for being sweet. Though he rarely speaks, and when he does, he is so soft-spoken it is barely recognizable, he is accepted right away as a kind man. I call his quiet demeanor the sweet silence. Recently, as I see him continue to lose weight on each of my trips home, I often worry that I won’t see him again. He is always on my mind, as I make my way back to the city, as I trudge along New York’s rainy streets, as I remind myself I am loved by him.
In that sweet silence of his, I find the purest form of comfort and hope to forever remember it, this quiet loving.

On the day of Madar Joon‘s one-year death anniversary, my oldest brother took me to an art center, perhaps to spare his six-year-old sister another day of grieving. While I knew why everyone was spending the day at the cemetery, I took his hand as he walked me to the big building after we got out of the cab. He sat with me, or stood nearby as I and the other children drew by our instructors’ guidance. I didn’t particularly like any environment where I was told what to do, for in Tehran nothing was really fun even if you were just a kid. But I think part of me had wanted to be at the cemetery; I never liked feeling left-out. I was already too conscious of what was happening around me, even if no one really explained death to me. Even when my aunt gave me her religious understanding of it from the holy book, I knew I couldn’t depend on that to explain why my 92 year-old grandmother, who I had spent many afternoons and evenings with, was lying dead on her bed, her daughter Soraya sobbing at her side.
Seventeen years later, what I remember is that while everyone left, my brother and I stayed behind, and I watched the street from the living-room window. I never had a voice, but if I did, I perhaps should have said that instead of pretending things are normal, I too would like to be at the cemetery. I didn’t cry when she died, nor on later occasions when I did go to the cemetery, but I shared my family’s sadness, along with the unstoppable sobs of my aunt Soraya. It is the process of understanding that pertains to growing up, to helping a child understand that pain and loss are part of life.
Later in life, especially after our immigration, my parents continued to leave certain decisions unexplained, and it is now on me to try and move on and understand why things happened the way they did. This feeling is not so much different than being a child, only that now I have no one to hold onto for protection.

As she walked up the gloomy stairs of the subway station, dread filled her insides, for she realized that it was already dark out, and the colors of the sky had changed, and that fall had inevitably arrived.
Unlike most people who liked fall for its beauty, the changing of colors, like her mother, sister and a friend born in October, she associated it with sadness. She remembered all the miserable school days in Tehran, how fall marked the beginning of another dreadful year in a system she hated. The buying of the uniforms, and the seriousness that followed inside the classrooms, where she had to sit silently, arms crossed, obeying and never questioning what was said.
Here in New York City, fall also brought back memories of times she was alone, and struggling, as she was now in a different way, to settle in a place she had dreamed of being, becoming, and loving.
Everything about New York was a struggle, she realized. Without much financial support, in a way, sometimes it seemed impossible. She felt herself getting more tired by the thought. She was only 23 and yet reality had sunk in so deep that her skin had lost its youthful color and unattractive circles formed under her eyes, along with lines on her forehead.
What was it she wanted once? She realized she had just imagined a fantasy where by moving to a big city, as great as New York, somehow the wheels would turn and something would happen. That’s how she was, always looking for something to happen. She was good with change until it became routine. She didn’t know how to handle routine, for she felt stuck, unable to breathe, like on her morning and return trips on a crowded subway train.
And here she was on the street, trying to make it home as the grey clouds seemed to surround her soul. Would she ever figure out how to be happy? She wondered as she struggled to pick up her pace.

I carry a lot of nostalgia that my family doesn’t. When they left Iran, they left their memories there as well. They held on to nothing because their journey was about letting go; their survival depended on letting go. But for me, it has always been a journey of loss, not so much that I wish to return. But somehow, my childhood self yearns for those days for they were the purest form of happiness. Perhaps because I didn’t have to be perfect then, I didn’t have the flaws that I have now. I didn’t have to form a new identity. My identity, my language, my being was one, and it was never questioned. It was after immigration, however, that everyone questioned it. I questioned myself more than anyone else. And I as I type these words, I am still aware of the flaws that hinder the flow of my thoughts, the words that I use improperly, the rare occasions where I pronounce something with the wrong syllables, the only time I make a slight speaking error, where to the general public my English appears flawless.
Perhaps I took the journey harder than others. I obsessed not over perfection, but rather a self-improvement that I will never acquire for my standards are always too high.
And so remains within me a longing to accept this self, this existence that will never be ideal.

I closed my eyes and imagined I was in the Dining Room of my house in Iran. I picked a room that only now exists in memory, in a house that was sold years ago and can never be revisited.
I pictured the cream-colored walls, and the photographs and art frames, the books and decorations on the shelves and the window. The room smelled like antiquity, a good smell. From the window, the trees and the neighbor’s house were visible. There was a woman in that house facing our garden; sometimes we crossed paths on the street. We heard her loud screams every now and then, the high-pitched screams that startled us every time, and every day.
I picked that room because the last time I was there I was 10 years old, and possibly happy, though awaiting to see my father in the States. It is where I played games with my cousins, where we ate sometimes because it was larger than all the other rooms, where guests slept if they stayed over, where we had friday lunches or Ramadan dinners. I picked the room in which I kept my toys in a locked cabinet, for I shared a room with my older sister. The room where I spent most of my childhood days in, role-playing alone, and drawing on the whiteboard. It is where my mother embroidered, and sang in the afternoons while I read a book or colored my drawing book. It is where we sat together after her nap for tea snacks, and I watched children’s programs on television.
I sang, and though my voice shook with every dropping tear, I felt a relief, knowing that no one could take my memories away.
My voice teacher said, “Don’t run away from this. I know that your mother doesn’t cry, but crying is not a weakness.”

When I walk in, my mother greets me by saying how great it is to have a daughter, even if she is a runaway. For her, my life in New York is equivalent to running away from my family.
Cedar Lane hasn’t changed. The house is the same, just as leafy and green as before. I run on a trail that stretches about 3 miles. My legs cramp and my ankles ache- the doctor tells me it’s from dehydration and being cold. I like the trail because there aren’t too many trees, but just enough wide roads and nature to make me feel like I am away from the city and closer to nature.
The roads are constantly under construction, bridges are being built, and the metro slows down because of it. But people don’t change. They adjust. They leave a few minutes earlier, and come home a few minutes later, get to their cars and drive home. Underneath me, cars move in both directions, fast, and I run above, on the bridge, looking down under, wondering if they can make out what I look like. When I reach the end of the trail, the hill becomes steeper, I am out of breath, and because my ankles ache, I stop my jog and force myself to walk with a quick pace.
While at Cedar, I am at peace. Perhaps because by now my heart knows New York too well, and though my soul needs it, my mind needs the peace and quiet. The best thing about sleeping is waking up to the sound of nothingness, sometimes birds chirping, but even that is too delightful to complain about. I love looking at my room, much bigger than the one in New York, and seeing nothing but trees, leaves, branches, and our beautiful yard. There is so much beauty that I once neglected to appreciate. And now as I count my days at Cedar, I cherish the seconds, and wonder when my next summer of Cedar will be.
I say my goodbyes, and my father waves, always asking me to come back soon, always bringing me to tears. My mother hugs me tightly with her small frame, and I leave them on Cedar, and they disappear behind the leaves. It’s just me then, on a bus back to the city, my heart filled with new memories, part of me aching for an easier life, the other yearning for more excitement and change.

On our walks back from school, my mother and I used to hop together on the sidewalks sometimes. She didn’t care if people watched. In Tehran, we didn’t own a car so we walked everywhere, and rode buses often, cabs on occasion. Mom took me to my doctor appointments, my gymnastics class, my art lessons, and to the bazar or the small markets. I was often buried between long, dark veils inside the crowded buses. The women were separated by a metal bar so there was no chance to intermix with the men on the bus. Of course, the women’s section was much smaller and we rarely found an empty seat. I could never breathe, but somehow my mother held onto my small fingers and never let go. Sometimes she gave me treats, like the yummy hot donuts with the chocolate glaze or the plain sweet ones shaped like a telephone.
Now that I think about it, I realize that if we had a car I wouldn’t have seen as many things as I saw in my 11 years of walking in the streets of Tehran. All the different neighborhoods, the many shortcuts, the people that were just bystanders. I didn’t know then that one day those walks would become my only memories of the streets of Tehran.
My mother was always braver. She pushed me so high on the swing and with so much strength that I yelled and screamed for her to stop, almost in tears from fear. I don’t remember her ever appearing scared or fearful. She either hid it well or had no reason to let it take over. She was a housewife, an embroider, and had a natural talent for singing. She always knew where she was going, knew when to say no if I wanted something I didn’t need like an expensive toy. She signed me up for classes every summer. Her biggest mission was to make me swim. “Your older sister learned to swim at five years old,” she always said. We couldn’t afford a piano, but she put me in a music class anyway. I hated it, naturally, and quit after the teacher made fun of me in front of the whole class for holding the Orff sticks incorrectly.
When I was a bit older, I began noticing the age difference. When talking to classmates, I was always the one who had the oldest parents. Once, when Mom was peeling a pomegranate and emptying the seeds into a bowl, I asked her what would happen if she died, what would I do without her. I calculated how old she would be when I reached high school, and the number frightened me. “I am not dead yet, am I?” she asked, a clever smile forming on her face. I was embarrassed by my question, but I needed reassurance.
When my father left us for the States, I was eight. My mother says that after he left, I began picking at my fingernails, tearing them with my fingers. The crying also began, the sudden sobs, the ones that were loud enough for everyone to hear. It seemed like I missed him the most. No one else cried in my family, not my older siblings, not my mother. And if they did, I never saw. Mom got angry at me for missing him, not because I did, but because she didn’t know what to do about it.
It was then that my relationship with my mother became different. I got angry at her probably because I imagined she didn’t care as much that he was gone. If she ever missed him, I never knew, for she never expressed it. She was just so perfect all the time, I never saw a moment of weakness in her. But I was the one who was weak. I was the one who cried and had terrible moods, who didn’t want to go to school, and cried every morning, who had nightmares. And I’ve grown up still trying to prove my mother wrong. I still haven’t managed to be strong, though she would beg to differ.
I used to think that I loved my father more. I think I thought that it was the least I could do to make up for him being gone, by telling myself I loved him more. I wanted to fill the gap. We made phone calls for four years to my father, always counting the time difference, always planning ahead, always hoping we would join him soon. If there ever was a god in my life, it was during that time, for I needed to believe in something. When you are a child and your family is broken up, you can only rely on a great being, especially if that’s what the school system teaches you too.

On Friday afternoons my mother used to ask us to call for Madar Joon, Baba’s mother. My siblings and I took turns yelling her name from the third floor, looking down the stairs below, hoping she would hear us so we wouldn’t have to knock on her door. She eventually came up and we sat, the six of us, around a large table cloth on the ground, and ate my mother’s meal.
That was our Friday routine, all of us eating together. And that is all that I remember about us, before we all fell apart, before Madar Joon died, before Baba left for the States, before my eldest brother left for Europe, before Baba decided to send for us from the States. This is all I remember. And though everything that happened after was much better for all of us, I still miss that piece. I miss those Fridays when it was simple. When we were simple. I don’t know what any of us wanted then, but I was happy then. Perhaps I was too content in childhood bliss to know what the rest of my family wanted.
But that is what my memory holds: a family eating together in unison, under the same roof. I can never let go of what was then, and for that, it will always be a struggle for me to mentally move on, and free myself of the pain of loss that to this day brings me to uncontrollable tears, followed by loud sobs that come from deep within me.
Memory is a strong thing, and I have too much of it. The pain is only inevitable.
During the first year of immigration, I had dreams about Madar sometimes. She was the only part of my dream that spoke Farsi. Up until we moved to Cedar Lane, everyone who saw my room, said it was a museum, almost disturbing because there were family photos on every side. Too many faces to look at. I was trying to recreate my family for myself because I was alone and wanted things to be the same.
Eventually, when I realized they would never be the same, when I started having more important dreams like going to college and leaving Virginia, when we moved to a house, our very own, I tore the pictures down from the wall. But the emptiness that came with taking them down, the nostalgia of those days, the people that I never saw again, remain still.

I am still a prisoner of my own fears.
In high school, teachers struggle to make you understand how important your future is. They want you to believe in yourself, to strive to be better. They don’t accept idleness, laziness, and a lack of drive. They push you, and if they are good at their job, don’t give up. But even they can’t really promise it will all be better once you get out, that you will find yourself, that you’ll be happy. They only tell you the next big step, which is going to college, which for some of us was the first generation of kids going to college in our families. The rest of it, life, no one knows. There is no mental preparation for the rest of the road, after college, when you are still unsure of who you are and what you want. What you wanted in high school is most often not even close to what you want as an adult, trying to actually cover your bills and make rent. Maybe it’s better to dream in high school, because if we all knew the truth, and the uncertainty that comes with growing up, we would all quit not only high school, but life. Maybe that’s why no one talks about the realities of the future, not because they don’t know it, but because it would seem ridiculous to a bunch of teenagers who think growing up is the coolest thing ever attained.
When I was in my senior year, I was very hopeful. I liked my writing, and none of the things I worry about now like love and finding happiness, and finding something to do bothered me. I even wrote an essay about how free I was, how after the years of immigration and the expectations I had set for myself I finally knew who I was.
It’s been five years since high school, and not only am I hopeless, but I am very much still a prisoner of my own fears. By that I mean that I have not yet conquered them, that my voice still shakes and feels wobbly when it comes out of my mouth in public. I have yet to respect everything about myself. I have yet to love myself, with all my flaws.
On the subway ride to work, I look around at people, to try and see if this is where they want to be. If in high school, they imagined themselves as grownups riding the train to work in one of the most crowded, difficult cities in the country. If they imagined that whatever corporate job they had was all they wanted. I wondered if any of them had originally planned to save the planet, be a humanitarian, or simply a father or mother. I wondered how they defined contentment then, and if it changed at all, or if they even think about it as much as I do. I feel detached sometimes, on these wobbly, scary rides to work where I am not sure if the train is even connected to the tracks and wires, or we are just simply hoping we are going to get somewhere safely. I look into the darkness outside the train, at the graffiti covered walls far away, the tunnels that seem to be untouched by humans, and I don’t want to be anything. I don’t want to be attached to anything. I don’t want to be in the present, or in the past, or in the future, I just simply don’t want to be.
It’s hard to define things now because life is so uncertain, I don’t even know how I got here. How I got out of high school, and ended up in New York, and now nothing makes any sense.