The smell and aura of the restaurant have possessed me. The candles are lit, it’s dark and everything is in harmony; there is a balance between the diners and the restaurant. There is a special elegance about this place that I’m madly in love with.

A man smokes and I watch the smoke disappear into the air. He is enjoying his cigarette and wine. I’m enjoying his enjoyment, though I have nothing of my own except a sentence in my head.

The Moroccan waiter passes by a couple of times and we make eye contact. He cajoles with a couple and asks the woman, “you’re not getting drunk tonight?” and the woman laughs and says, “No, not tonight.”

He smokes and I like to sit with him and take a puff. I hate the smell of cigarettes, but I love to watch people hold them in their hands like they’re candy, or a sweet companion. It’s a temporary, evanescent escape, but so is everything else.

Everything, like this restaurant, the feeling I have, the things I see, and the thoughts I have are all momentary…like falling in and out of love, like being kissed, like drinking wine, like every day that passes by.

We live in impermanency, in moments that cease to last, in déjà vu…The pleasure of the wine, the cigarette, the kiss, the hello and good-bye lasts for a second or two, and then it's gone.

It’s raining outside by the time I leave and I suddenly like it…temporarily…

My father knows which lettuce to pick out. He knows which apples are good, which ones still need time to ripen, which tomatoes are juicier. He knows where to park, where to find the best deals, the best sales.

I hold onto my father’s hand as we walk by the Potomac River. I hold on to a hand that is now wrinkled, full of scars of the past and the present. A hand that held on to his children’s hands when their mother wasn’t there to do it. A hand that carried the weight of everyday tasks when mother was gone. A hand that is still scarred by wounds, wounds that will never heal.

My father knows when to let go of my hand. He knows that I count on him for being there for me, for protecting me, for loving me.

He seldom speaks to me about himself, his life or his pains. We seldom speak. But my father and I watch out for each other and our unspoken love for one another is strong enough to keep us together.

I asked him if he was going to miss us.

I looked at the clean, white board, the walls that were empty of posters, the empty chairs, the untouched desks. I looked at his almost bare room and thought back to the first day of school when I sat, uncertain of what the year would be like. I was overwhelmed with frustration and I could not bare it.

Now, all the seats were empty while I stood there, saying good-bye. I knew I was going to miss that class, those immature, yet creative boys who took every chance at sexual innuendos. I was going to miss Chester’s imitation of D.H.T.’s “Listen to your heart”. I was going to miss Julia’s speeches as she half sat on her chair, perfectly tanned. I was going to miss John’s witty, smart aleck responses.

Many stories were told in that class. Stories of young lives in two generations. Stories that one teacher decided to tell. Stories that one teacher decided to hear. Stories that were shared, whether wanted or unwanted. Stories that weren’t written in text, but were told by kids who lived them everyday. Stories that were real in all their simplicity and honesty.

We made realities out of everyday happenings. We interpreted literature in the best way that it could be done by a class of teenagers. We wrote, and were asked to share. And he was right; we all did have something to share.

We discovered the very lives of those sitting next to us, how their parents treated them, how they got away with trouble, how they played tricks on their teachers.

I knew I was going to miss him.

My friend sent me a text message this morning: At home crying because end of school finally hit me.

Last night we walked on stage as they called our names. We walked on stage and received our diplomas. Diplomas that represented four years of tears, laughs, tests, sleepless nights, overdue labs, and afters school meetings. Diplomas that stored the bitter, sweet memories of four years that flew by, like the balloons that flew off during the ceremony.

I watched their faces, faces that screamed happiness, relief, freedom. I replayed memories of my freshman year and thought of the little girl who never spoke, never raised her hand, never broke her shell.

We screamed, we jumped up and we hugged each other tightly, as if to secure our friendship bond. We made it. We did it.

I watched the tearful eyes of my teachers and knew it was over.

It finally hit me.

Whenever daddy fell asleep on the couch, I brought him a blanket or a pillow. I used to think I was being helpful. I used to think I was doing something big for him. I used to think a blanket and a pillow would be his only needs.

She takes off his socks and helps him put on his pyjamas. I can’t watch him weaken. I can’t stand by the door and watch him fall, right before my eyes. I can’t look at him when he is in pain, when he is too tired to eat, when he is holding on to the wall.

When I was little, daddy had a hard time walking up the stairs and whenever we took walks, he was always behind, taking slow steps. The doctors couldn’t help daddy and I didn’t understand how much he was hurting inside. He was good at hiding his pain. Behind his sincere smile, behind his hopeful eyes, there was a deeper wound that no doctor could heal.

I stand by the door and watch my father as he struggles to bend. I stand by the door and I want to reach over, give him my hand, and tell him that I will always be by his side. I want to tell him that I love him, that he has always been my tree, my guard, my protector. I want to reach out to him and ask him not to fall.

Daddy please don’t fall…

My father goes to bed and we close his door. He will get up in the morning and he will smile again, as if nothing is wrong. He is going to be the father he has always been, and in his eyes, I will always be his little girl.

The water boils and I stir the pot. I put the macaronis in and close the top. The kitchen smells of burned onions and garlic; my clothes have a combination of both smells. Unlike my mother, I don’t know my ways around the kitchen. I don’t know where all the peppers and other additives are. I don’t know where she stores her best knives, her best plate ware.

I’m not a cook. I’m not a housekeeper, nor am I a maid. I despise frozen meat and the smell of fish. I’m scared of knives, scissors and other sharp objects. I have no predilection for pots and pans and silverware. I despise chores.

Inside this house, I eat, sleep, visit the laundry room every Sunday afternoon and occasionally do the dishes. I am every roommate’s worst nightmare because I don’t clean and I don’t obsess with neatness or organization.

Mother thought she raised a proper lady. She thought she raised a model of herself. Mother thought her daughter would grow up to be an independent, proper, responsible woman.

The macaronis are ready. The pot of beef is ready. I make the table and we eat. I stare at the bright walls of the kitchen and suddenly I miss mother.

Sitting alone with my cup of vanilla latte, I wonder if the man sitting in front of me sees the bubble I’m in. I wonder if I appear to him as a snobbish, spoiled young adult who will let no one break her bubble. I wonder if I appear as one who thinks highly of herself, who is arrogant and will let no man get close, close enough to break her boundaries.

Nura says men are afraid that I will reject them and break their hearts. She says that I’m intimidating because I reserve myself from engaging in ludicrous conversations and activities when I’m away from my circle of close friends. She says I’m not the type of girl that flirts with every male in the room and makes herself seem easy.

Maybe it’s time to let loose. Maybe it’s time to be the chooser instead of the chosen. I have to break this damn bubble and at least feign a smile, a smile that says ‘look, I’m really not a snob and I don’t think I’m better than everyone in this room’.

By the time I’m finished with my latte, the man has already left. I didn’t get to ask him if he read my fears or if he saw that beneath my stuck-up image, I was just a naive, simple girl who was tired of drinking alone.

Carelessly, she strides down the escalator in her ballerina dress. She dances around and chases her little brother while people walk pass them with their big shopping bags. Her little body sways as if she is a weightless feather.

I sit, watching her in envy. I envy her freedom, her swift moves, her charisma, her free spirit, her ignorance. I envy her ignorance because her world is much more beautiful and pure than mine is, because she doesn’t live by rules or definitions. She is a small child who is unaware of the loneliness of my world. She doesn’t know how ugly everything can seem, how erroneous and scary it can be.

I uncross my legs as her little brother tries to pass by. I sit back and watch them scream out of excitement and I envy them.

The little ballerina and her brother continue their enjoyment while their grandmother tries to hold on to them. They leave and I picture my sister as a little girl, a little girl whose mommy temporarily left when she was eight. A little girl who was never a ballerina.

“Donde está mi amor?”
“Where are you my love?”
Inside the elevator, she is talking on her cell phone to a lover or a boyfriend or an ex she is still in love with. Her stop is the 24th floor so I have plenty of time to find out her story. She tells him that she can only spend a few minutes because her husband is coming back from town. So she is having an affair. I try to hide my smile; I can’t let her know that I know her secret.

Her short, black hair allows me to see her freckles, the few lines above her forehead and the tiny mole above her left brow. She fidgets and plays with the gold wedding band on her finger. How many times does she see him? How many lies does she tell?

She quickly grabs her navy brief case and steps out to see Enrique, the forbidden lover, the secret lover, her amor.

I smile and wait for the elevator to close.

We walk by private boats and the happy couples who drink wine in them. These beautifully constructed boats belong to the rich and have become showcases for those who walk by. We watch them as they laugh candidly, their legs crossed, holding their expensive champagnes. And we wonder. We wonder how the rich became rich. We wonder how these boats became private, almost untouchable by those who could simply watch from a side.

We’ve learned to be the watchers. We’ve learned to enjoy picture-perfect sceneries like sunsets, sunrises, dawns, blue skies, boats, elegant bistros and diners in limousines. We’ve learned to live by the pleasure of others.

I watch this beautiful picture, this beautiful scene and I feel nothing. I’m tired of pretending, pretending that I’m pleased by what I can only see.

I head out the door and this time I decide to leave my watch on the dining room table. Time will elapse on its self; I don’t need to keep track.

The small shops on Wisconsin Avenue in D.C. tempt me again. It’s always the same temptation. The temptation of life in the city that never sleeps, that never shuts off its lights…New York. I look inside an empty Laundromat and I like the idea of going inside, inserting a coin and doing the laundry, the thing I do best. But I’ve already done today’s laundry.

I walk ahead of them and I know that time is elapsing on its own. I feel its power and I'm not going to stop it. I take pleasure in my fast, yet cautious walk under this dark, starless night. The sidewalk, the road, the night, and a moment of pure contentment all belong to me, or so it seems.

And that moment is when I know that I can and will have the life I want, the life in a sleepless city, the life of dirty Laundromats, dark allies, dismal apartments and loud motorbikes.

Time means nothing…

The night is hot and my blouse is unbuttoned half way.

I’m thinking of sleeping in a hotel room, under fresh, clean, new covers, under a foreign roof. I miss the aura of unknown territories, the smell of unfamiliar beds and bleached sheets.

The night is hot, stale, decayed, hackneyed…I feel out of place, like a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit, like a misplaced card.

I’m thinking of that untouched room, the one that the maid has just finished cleaning, the one with windows that open to a dark, black midnight sky.

The night is hot. I take off the stale blouse and slip under the covers; I’m tainted by every inch of my old, damaged bed.

I was seven and Daddy woke me up for school. He made my lunch with butter and mom’s homemade jams, then he ironed my white scarf. Once, he left the hot iron on one of my doll blankets; the iron’s stain never came off. Daddy and I crossed the street and he never let go of my hand. But he knew I would grow up one day. He knew that one day, I wouldn’t need to hold on to his hand.

I want to thank all the Dads who hold their children’s hands, who take them to soccer practice and cheer from the benches. I want to thank the fathers who kiss their children every night before they go to bed and sit on the edge of their beds before they fall asleep. I want to thank the Dads who buy ice-cream on their way home from work and play catch with their kids at dusk.

Thank you Daddy for cheering me, for never ceasing to smile, for being my rock. Thank you for being my father, my guardian angel.

Love,
Your little girl

I remember a bride and a groom, not distinctly clear figures but rather silhouettes. That day I was in Manhattan, near Central Park with my family. The day was that of a breezy, summer afternoon and a bride and groom were being photographed by a birch tree. She was of Asian descent, standing against the tree, her veil covering her vulnerable eyes, like a shield that protects the innocent.

Even then at 16, I knew that I preferred the comfort of my t-shirt and jeans over that long, torturous, puffy gown. A gown that mopped the ground and with it, picked up tiny pieces of grass and dirt particles along the way. A gown that fit her small body so perfectly that no one, not even the skilled photographer could re-define, re-invent, reshape. A gown that was too pure, too refined in elegance to surmount.

I watched that angelic figure from a far and focused my own lens on her as the photographer did with his. Her mystery and obscurity was captivating, but only for the moment in which I shot the picture. Beyond that lens, she meant nothing to me; she was just a figure, a silhouette in a white gown. And I…

I would never be a bride.

Amid the long traffics, the hot afternoons and the polluted streets of Tehran, my brother and his wife search for a new apartment. Soon, they will move out of a sold home. Mom is worried. Apartments are expensive and replacing an old home is far too hard. How do you recreate a home?

I’m tearing my nails and I still can’t accept the inevitability of what’s lost. What’s lost is a solid, concrete home and no matter how good of a memory I have, I won’t ever be able to revisit it. I won’t be able to trace the walls, the doors, the windows.

I can’t cry. The emptiness I feel does not require tears. The emptiness I feel requires nothing. No sadness, no melancholy, no sorrow…just emptiness, like an empty home that has no owner, like a home that has value only in dollars and cents.

Sold.

I like the sound of thunder; it’s intoxicating. I am writing a short note tonight, as rain begins to pour, to say that I’ll be in New York City tomorrow afternoon. I will have no access to the internet despite my deep attachment to its wonders. So I won’t be able to write how intoxicating the sound of the city is or how exhilarating it is to walk on 5th avenue. But once I get back on Monday night, I will post something about it.
Who knows, maybe this time I’ll see something new…

On rainy days in New York City, men sell umbrellas for five dollars on the pretty, colorful sidewalks of Manhattan. Shoppers leave the expensive stores on 5th avenue and beggars sleep near tall roofs, under the sound of thunderstorms. But the city never sleeps; the city never dies.

As I observe the city in between water droplets, I find myself enjoying the rain. I find myself happy, despite the fact that I’m stepping into many puddles of dirty water with my flip flops. I find myself liking a rain that I most often hate. Could it be that I’m immune to my usual dislikes once I’m in the city?

I bid the wet city au revoir and gather my belongings to head back to Virginia. There is only one thing on my mind: I’m coming back, even in the pouring rain…

One day, when I’m ready, when I’m over my fears and doubts, one day when the roads are clear, I’ll pack a suitcase and I’ll head to the city. If I’m still in love with it, I’ll stay. I’ll unpack and I’ll sleep under the sound of running engines and the guitar that the poor man plays on the street.

I’ll sleep while rain pours outside in a sleepless, restless city.

The young bride throws her bouquet. I sit back, refusing to get up, refusing to pretend that I want to catch a bouquet that means nothing to me, refusing to join the other single girls who wait impatiently.

This is another wedding where I’m simply another spectator, a girl in a pink dress who wonders why she is still single, unattended, and undesired. This is another wedding where I watch a bride who at 22 already knows what she wants, who knows who’s hands she wants to hold onto forever, who knows who’s lips she wants to kiss every night, who knows everything that some of us don’t know yet.

Maybe sometimes we just have to ignore logic, ignore consequences, ignore reasons. I wonder, if we listen to our heart and our heart only, would things work out? By ignoring all the facts and figures and rationalities, would it be possible to fall in love, be in love, whether forever or temporarily?

She strides down the aisle in her white dress, thinking of no one but him. I don’t think life could be any simpler for her...

We’re trapped inside, watching the rain pour violently, vigorously. I hate it. I don’t know about Daddy; there is so much I don’t know about the man who watched me grow, who took turns feeding me, who walks around this house, hardly speaking his mind, hardly complaining, hardly arguing. I don’t know if he feels as trapped as I feel when it rains or if he is at peace. The rain keeps pouring outside, and we watch it behind the glass windows. I don’t know when it will stop.

And I don’t know my father.

She and I share the same kind of loneliness. We share the pleasure of drinking tea in the mornings, afternoons, evenings, and right when night falls. She sits behind her laptop and reads emails; I sit behind mine and listen to overly repeated songs. We have gotten ourselves used to the walls of this house, the tea pot that sits on the kitchen counter, the couch that has no particular odor, the balcony that we sometimes escape to when we’re tired of what’s inside.

But she doesn’t like to share her clothes, her makeup or her shoes. And I don’t like to share my pains, the fantasies I create for myself, or my fears of letting go. I used to think sisters were supposed to share everything. I used to think sisters could share everything. But I see that some things cannot be shared. Even our loneliness, despite its similarity in nature, can be differentiated.

I wonder how long it will take before he stops loving me, before he stops looking at me the way he always does, before his eyes no longer spark, before he stops whispering my name while we make love. How long will it take before he stops caressing me, pressing his fingertips on my lips? His love for me will die one of these days. I will be another lollipop that he will be tired of chewing. I will be a forgotten candy, unfinished, unwrapped, laying on an empty table.

He comes in, throws his keys on a table full of unpaid bills and doesn’t look at me. I sit and watch the rain, pretending I don’t know he is there. I pretend this man is not the man I used to love, that he is not the man who never had enough of me, who could never stop kissing me. But why should I pretend? Now we are just strangers. I play with the ring on my finger, the ring that was meant to map our love for eternity, the ring that is now as meaningless as an unsolved equation. I’m thinking of selling it to an antique store or handing it off to my daughter. Or maybe I’ll throw it away like another piece of garbage. I’ll let it deteriorate with the rest of our trash; I’ll let it become dust. My daughter hates me because I’ve turned into a cold, bitter mother who is too tired to read stories or sing lullabies. My daughter hates me because I don’t look at her father when he is home, because I don’t ask him to take her horseback riding or to a movie.

My husband is gone. He left yesterday before noon when the rain began. He left me standing in the rain while I got soaked. He gave me a check for the bills and placed his wedding ring in my hand. My daughter stood behind the window and watched. I remembered the day my Daddy left. It was raining and Mama was crying inside. She cried and I watched Daddy leave with his brown brief case. But I didn’t cry as I watched my husband leave. I had no tears, no regrets and no guilt. I let the ring drop from my hand as I stepped inside. I didn’t turn around to see him get into his red Chevy, the one we bought on our wedding night. That night we were both drunk. Drunk and in love. And we thought we would always stay that way. We thought we would always sit in that Chevy and drive away to foreign towns. I didn’t turn around to see him wave to my baby daughter, my Lolita, my only love. I went inside, picked her up, kissed her and told her how much I loved her. I slept alone that night after 13 years and sold my ring the next morning.

The sun came out today and I walked to a lonely, isolated bus stop. A woman joined me in my loneliness just a couple of minutes after I came. She constantly moved her right leg, an uncontrollable habit of hers, and inhaled her cigarette like oxygen, smoke floating around her. Then, when she got tired of puffing it in and out, she threw it a foot away, on the edge of the crosswalk. I had met a living cigarette. From the corner of my eye, I could see her glancing at me, wondering why I was addicted to the music that played through my earphones. We were both addicts.

Inside the bus, where I was still lost in my own state of mind, there were many lonely people who had destinations, jobs, families, dreams even bigger than mine. But I had no destination. I could sit in my seat for hours, and I would not be late for any meetings, for any dates, for any dinners. I would be late for nothing. I wished I had a destination. I wished I had a plan, a little agenda that would break me away from my solitude, away from my languor.

I left the bus with my headphones still in my ears. And she left the bus with another cigarette. The cigarette was her only companion that day and the music was mine. I could not part from the songs that kept me moving straight ahead, to a path that was already drawn for me. And she couldn’t part from her lighter, the only one that lit her lonely mind.

Lolita doesn’t talk to me these days. She no longer giggles when I rub her tummy; she becomes stiff, and doesn’t want to be touched. I keep reminding myself that everything will be okay. I keep telling myself that we’re going to make it work. But my daughter is too little to know that. She is too little to know that even though her Daddy is gone, even though he doesn’t come for dinner and is no longer here to give her a good-night kiss, he still loves her.

Lolita doesn’t tell me she misses him. She stares at his photograph, the one right next to my bed, the one that used to make me fall in love with him all over again. I pad her shoulders and read for her stories that were once her favorite. I make her spaghetti, her favorite food. I kiss her before she goes to bed, after she wakes up and when she goes off to school. I hug her and take her horseback riding on Grandpa’s ranch. I do the things that I would have wanted Mama to do for me. I do the things that I always dreamed of when I was little. I tell myself I’m a good mother. I tell myself that what happened doesn’t mean I’m a bad mother. I tell myself and yet I know that her life will never be the same. She will always remember Daddy’s empty seat at the table. She will always remember her mother’s pallid face. She will always remember the smell of his shirt, the cologne that he always wore to work, the way he ate his spaghetti and the way he slept on the yellow couch. She will remember every little detail, and she will always wonder why he left, why he walked out and didn’t kiss Mommy. And I, I will know that I broke my own promise, the promise to never let my daughter see her Daddy leave.

A little girl in ponytails sits across from me. Her mother has placed her hand on her little legs to make sure she doesn’t fall; the roads are too bumpy. I watch the two of them and they’re picture-perfect. I suddenly miss being held. I miss being touched by mother’s hands and I feel like a child who wants to cry for mom’s embrace. I’m suddenly weakened, vulnerable, and my eyes are watery. I have forgotten how good it feels to be held by mother, the woman who knows every detail of your face, every little speck on your arms. I have forgotten her smell, her voice, her songs.

Can I be a child, just one more time?

She is sitting there quietly and I smile. I smile at her; I haven’t forgotten how to smile.