Darya means sea in Farsi.
I love water. I’ve loved it ever since I was little and played in the beach with my cousins. We used to love the waves. We’d stand near the edge, afraid of getting any closer, and sang for the waves to come faster. The thrill of all that energy and strength killed us, made us laugh so hard we’d hold our stomachs and yell. The ocean was like one of those toys we wanted so bad but couldn’t have, or like a big blanket that encompassed all of our dreams. We were little. The ocean was ours and yet it was so far beyond our reach. We’d bury our feet underneath the silky sands, pick crystal seashells and add more stones to our collection. We role-played by the ocean. I was always the mean, nasty mom who forced her daughters into an unwanted marriage, the old-fashioned, arranged marriage. Sasha played the older daughter. My favorite game was the one that involved the made-belief guy named Koorosh, who fell in love with me. I was the daughter. Or maybe it was Sasha who fell in love. I can’t remember anymore. We loved that game so much we tried to make it into a series.
The house beach belonged to one of my other cousin’s. We loved that house. The beach was ours. The sea was ours. A whole yard of orange trees and tangerines. Barbecue in the afternoons. Nights were card games and dancing in bandary, the traditional southern dance.
And then there was the ocean, the sound of solitude and tranquility, wrapped inside the waves. We fell asleep to that. We woke up to that and there was nothing like it. Nothing like waking up and smelling fresh, salt water, eating homemade strawberry jam with sweet tea and fresh bread. Nothing like walking through those white gates, standing on the steps and watching the sea. Nothing like hearing your name through the waves.
Darya is everything. I think Leila should name her baby Darya and maybe we can tell her our stories of the sea.