I open the window and I smell Iran. I smell Tehran. I smell familiarity. I smell our kooche and the rooftop where I rode my bike. I smell the early mornings when Mom woke me up, made me a hot tea with lots of sugar, and walked me to school. I smell the streets where I rode crowded buses, lost among veils and chadors. Iran. What does it mean? What part of it do I miss? What part of it do I want? If I go back again, how familiar will these things be? Will I smell home?
I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I no longer miss that land. I’m afraid that my mind has lost track of its shape, its map, its Alborz Mountains and its midnight sky. I’m afraid that I no longer feel nostalgic, melancholy.
I miss pronouncing “Iran”. I miss writing “Iran”. I miss being a little girl, hopping my way back home, not knowing what good-bye or homesickness means.
I close the window and shut my eyes. I smell my watermelon-scented perfume and forget how much I miss Tehran.