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.”