Scrambled; I like my eggs scrambled, she reiterates herself, carefully watching her mother head upstairs to the kitchen. She is irritated, indignant that her breakfast has been delayed, again. At 3 p.m. she is meeting him for lunch; they have much to discuss about their engagement plans. Today is an important day and everything needs to go right. By now I should already be doing my laundry, she mutters to herself, watching the clock that reads 11. Mrs. Hathaway returns downstairs from a very disordered, messy kitchen, holding a plate of salted scrambled eggs, neatly placed on the right side of the dish, just as her daughter likes it. They are too salty, Elizabeth complains. And where is the bun; you know I always like the bun on the side. Mrs. Hathaway heads back up to the kitchen. She has forgotten, she realizes, that her daughter likes her eggs scrambled and not too salted, that she always eats them with a bun on the side, that she has to have a glass of milk no later than 12 p.m. Elizabeth waits impatiently, tapping her manicured nails on the table. I can’t believe she has forgotten, she mutters again. By the time Mrs. Hathaway returns back with the bun carefully placed on the side, not touching the eggs, Elizabeth has already reached her car, shaking her head, her stomach growling loudly. Mrs. Hathaway stands by her daughter’s empty chair, staring at the dish she had prepared with such delight. As Elizabeth pulls her Mercedes out of the driveway, Mrs. Hathaway sits her self down to eat. Yes, I added a tad too much salt, she says as if she is speaking to Elizabeth.

Yes. He was in love with her words, with the way she carried her sentences, the way she ended them. It was a different kind of love, sort of indefinable; yet at the same time, they both understood it. They both knew what kind of love it was. And they both kept it a secret.

She settled herself in Manhattan, sipping her morning coffee in subways and taxis, writing stories in crowded, packed cafes on 5th Avenue. She kept in touch with him, asking him how he was and what he was up to. And then one day he got married and she finally let him go. New York was hers now, just like he always said.

Inside the La Madeleine, a cozy French café, the Franks order their coffees and pastries and search for the perfect table. After they take off their coats and settle themselves down, Mrs. Frank reminds her daughters that Grandma M’s arrival is not too far away. The girls both smile with delight; they have missed Grandma M’s stories, her talks, her habit for always carrying food in her big purse. The Franks are awfully talkative tonight; even the quiet Mr. Frank shares his thoughts with his wife and daughters as they discuss a road trip to NYC and Boston and Chicago. They want to show Grandma M the city, introduce her to American delights and have her listen to Christmas carols. It is a pleasant, sweet night for them, one they have not had in a while. Once the coffees are finished, the empty mugs stained, and the waiter is tipped, the Franks step out into the cold, thinking of Grandma M.

Nelly and Eve walk to the parking lot, away from a dead campus, away from the boys who were playing kick ball in the grass. Temperatures have dropped on this unexpectedly cold December evening and the girls have forgotten to wear their fur coats. The wind pushes them back every few seconds, forcing them to retreat to the brutality of winter. The girls stop to catch their breaths, their faces numb from the wind. “I smell burnt wood; it’s the smell of winter,” Nelly suddenly remarks as if she is speaking to herself. Eve says nothing and continues walking, her body too cold and numb. As Eve gets closer to the red Chevy, she does not hear Nelly’s distant voice. Inside the car, Nelly looks at her friend and says, “marshmallows and hot coca by the fire, that’s what I want right now,” and then they drive away.

Wearing her pointy red heels and a brown dress that emphasizes her curves, she comes out of the apartment, locking the door behind her. She slips the keys into her matching purse, checking the door once more to be sure it’s locked. Right then her neighbor Mrs. Zen steps out of her apartment, tightly holding on to her cane. “You must be going to a party; you look very nice,” Mrs. Zen says enthusiastically, her eyes on the red heels. The girl simply smiles back, asking Mrs. Zen how she is. They talk a little bit about the cold and the harsh winter that everyone is worried about. And then Eve goes off, wishing Mrs. Zen a good night.

She reaches a small, cream-colored building and walks up to the first floor, her feet already in pain. Gloria opens the door, welcomes her inside and they begin the therapy session. “My neighbor thought I’m going to a party,” she says and they both laugh.

I didn’t know if I was in love or if it was the idea of love that I was in love with. But I knew that I had certain feelings, feelings that put me on the verge of tears, feelings that I knew had to be erased. I was thinking too much, every day, every minute that I got a chance. And it wouldn’t make sense. This idea, this convoluted concept made no sense to me. The more I thought of the idea of being loved, the idea of being part of his life, of being held, the more I became delusional. This fantasy became my every night’s dream, leading me to beautiful places, to an escape of reality and everything that was ever sensible. In daylight I was a lost puppy, a fool, an optimist looking for any kind of sign, for even the slightest possibility. By night I was a dreamer again, living my fantasy in beautiful, inescapable dreams.

And that was it. I never figured out if it was the idea or if it was the real thing. For me, that fantasy stayed in my dreams and I was forced to abandon it. I was hurting inside, but I had no choice. I was a writer, nothing more. I could weave stories in any way, with any ending, with any beginning, but I simply could not bring the story to life.

He received an email from a former Harvard student and his heart nearly stopped. In a state of utter shock and disbelief, he closed the email, then reopened it, unable to grasp the words. He canceled his Biology class and without any formal announcement, left his office.

Hours later, he found himself in the airport, buying a ticket to New York. It was early December and the snow had already accumulated in Manhattan, reaching several inches high. Disoriented, he held the ticket firmly in his numb hand, wondering what it meant. How long had it been since they had last spoken? Four years ago, he muttered. It had been four years since they had last spoken.

With the snow falling and the crows flying over the tombstones, the cemetery was a surreal picture. The girl’s family was gathered in one corner, heads down, the mother looking into space with not a single tear on her face. At another corner, her friends were standing, some crying, others quietly mourning.

He stood by a tree, watching this picture, unsure of his position. Before he could make up his mind, his former student approached him, her eyes swollen and red.

“She was in love with you,” she said and walked away.

MR. FRANK CAME home early from work on a Wednesday afternoon. It was around 4 p.m. and he could hear music playing in his daughter’s room. He didn’t like Western music; it was not his taste. He found it loud and incomprehensible. Mrs. Frank had not returned from work yet and there was no one else in the house but his daughter. As he took off his black shoes, he heard the water boiling on the stove. “Eve!” he yelled out, but of course Eve did not hear him since the music was playing too loudly. Mr. Frank became irritated again but went to the kitchen himself and turned off the stove. “Hi Daddy” Eve was standing by the dishwasher, giving him a big smile like she was a little girl of seven again. Mr. Frank wanted to say something regarding the music or the water that was boiling rigorously. But he simply smiled at his soon-to-be 19 year-old daughter and said “hi beautiful”.

Liv had a little too much to drink at V’s Christmas party. V’s husband was the bartender of the night, serving drinks to the girls, preparing the fire so they could keep warm on the deck. The girls were her colleagues, young college students, and most underage. They danced and drank and had a good time. As Liv went up the stairs where the managers sat around, eating turkey sandwiches, talking about their lives, she started feeling dizzy. The alcohol was beginning to settle in.

The next day Liv was in desperate need for caffeine to keep her body awake and her mind focused. Her bills were staggering again; she had spent too much on a pair of boots. She wanted to go back to bed and dream for the rest of the afternoon.

Liv picked up her cell phone, but decided not to call him.

She left Boston with a heavy heart on a sunny afternoon. It was the last day of autumn and the bare trees no longer provided her with a cool shade. Her suitcases were packed, her biology books neatly positioned among her clothes. She was leaving for New York City to experience city life, to explore the possibilities of New York, to live on the 20th floor of an apartment building right in the middle of Manhattan. She wanted to taste life, the life of a dreamer.

She had emailed him two days before her departure, a short message that only indicated a date and time and a request for a quick coffee to say good-bye. She did not receive an email and refused to call him. She assumed that he was busy; finals were coming up and he was, after all, a professor at Harvard with lots on his hand. She had hoped to see him, to tell him that he too had made her life, that he too had taught her to be somebody, to be amazing and true to herself.

The university had never looked more glorious to her than it did now. She was in love with it, with its classrooms, with the friends she had made, with the professors she had met. She stood, watching the window to his classroom, desperately hoping that he would approach it, perhaps to feel the air or to refresh his room. It was 10 minutes past 2 and she could no longer waste any more time.

She drove off, making a quick stop at the nearest Starbucks. She needed one last taste of her hometown. She made a toast to herself and prayed that it wouldn’t rain in the city.

In 10 minutes his students would walk in with their notebooks, ready to write every word he said. The classroom was too hot; the heat was stuck on high. He decided that he had just enough time to check his email, the weather perhaps and browse the web a bit. He had one new email in his inbox and it was from his former Biology student. She was a sweet girl who emailed him quite regularly, checking on him, keeping in touch. He opened the email, expecting a long page of random talk, of sentences that always made him laugh, smile. But this email was unusually short, simply a note of good-bye. “I am finally leaving. New York will love me; I just know it. Have coffee with me at 12 on the 18th so I can say good-bye. You know where.” He took note of the date on his note pad and closed the email page. He was happy that she had finally found what she wanted. He had always wanted the best for her, knowing she was capable of doing anything she wanted.

On the 18th, there was a long meeting for the faculty that ran until 1. As he left the meeting, he received a call from a friend he had not spoken with in years. He took the call and did not check the time. An hour later, he finished his conversation, went back to his office, and paused. He knew he was forgetting something.

He did not leave the building until 2:45 and suddenly he remembered.

When she was alone in the metro or on the bus, when she had no one to talk to, when there was nothing else to think about, she thought of him. She thought of him in that big lecture room, talking about cells and atoms, looking at her sometimes but never for answers. She imagined him appearing out of the crowd that hurriedly got on the bus, wearing a long coat, his glasses slightly out of place, looking for a seat.

She drove off to New York, thinking again, picturing the class and him walking from corner to corner, not sitting still. He never sat in one place; he preferred to walk around. The light turned red and she almost wished to turn around, and go back to the University, find him and tell him that she cared too much. She wanted to tell him that she didn’t care for a cup of coffee, that it was really him she wanted to see, him, the man who told her she was great.

And then rain started pouring, heavily, aggressively. She couldn’t hold her tears anymore so she let herself cry. She had been waiting too long for this day, too many times, too many different ways. She had pictured a sunny afternoon with a cool breeze, the sky a baby blue, and the roads clear, inviting. But this was nothing like that picture.

She drove passively, no longer watching road signs, crying, searching for tissues in the dashboard. By the time she reached the city, she was too tired to think. That night was her first night alone in a big city, away from home, away from Boston and the bittersweet memories.

The tomb stones, the grass, his shoes were all covered in snow. The sky was red, the sun was gone, and he felt numb, not terribly cold, just numb. He felt a tear on his cheek and quickly brushed it off with his sleeve. She had been in love with him and he had never known. He sat on the wet grass by a cross-shaped grave and stared off into the distance where he could see the mourners disappearing into their cars, back to their routines. He had cancelled class, speeded to the air port for a flight to New York, almost gotten hit by a mad cab driver, and was now sitting on wet grass with his new Banana Republic pants.

Hours passed and he forgot the time. Or perhaps he didn't care to look at his watch, to see if was time for lunch or for supper. He got up, shook off the snow from his pants, cleared his glasses with his shirt and walked to where the crows had gathered. Her grave was a simple, grey stone with her name embedded in the middle. He looked at it, bent down, kneeling, and touched it with his finger tips. And then when the crows flew away, and the snow stopped, and the sky became dark, he broke down and silently cried.

Grandma M is here now and the Franks are giving her a tour of the city. She seems content with walking, even if she has to carry her cane. She is content with drinking tea out of huge American mugs, with watching her granddaughters dress in colorful outfits, with learning about what her daughter does for a living. In the evenings when the Franks gather for tea, Grandma M tells them stories of the past, of those who’ve touched her life, of her trips to India and Moscow. The girls listen to their Grandma as she recounts those memories with every little detail, one story leading to another. For the Franks, it seems as if Grandma M has brought back what they all left behind, Tehran.

He left the cemetery disoriented, his eyes red, and his hands numb from the cold. A head-ache that had started in the plane was now a strong, constant banging inside his head. There was no one in the graveyard as he left, even the crows had disappeared. He decided to take a slow walk on a nearby road to clear his head. Tomorrow morning his students would be expecting him back; he had to return. Besides, staying in Manhattan where he would be constantly reminded of her would do him no good. He had to get back to his life, to Harvard. He had to work on his dissertation and finally publish his writings.

By the time he reached an almost empty bar, he had walked 10 blocks. Tired, he ordered a whiskey and settled himself on a stool, pulling out his wallet. He was there for hours, listening to strangers next to him who were deep in conversation. He listened to country songs that played over and over again on an old radio. He couldn’t remember why he never had that coffee with her before she left for New York. He couldn’t remember why he had stopped emailing her, why he pushed her away. Was it because he was afraid he would get attached? Was it because he had feelings that were different and new, ones he couldn’t figure out? Or was it because he knew she was emotional and dependent and that if he would let her, she would get too close, too involved in his life outside the Harvard walls?

The thoughts that ran in his mind became too convoluted, complicated and intangible. The alcohol wasn’t allowing him to think straight, to figure out what it was that he felt for her all those years, and whether his feelings were strong enough to be called love.

He finished his last glass and finally got up, almost tripping over a chair; he was too drunk and dizzy from the booze. He had forgotten her, had forgotten why he was in a dirty city that sickened him. And he walked out of the bar, drunk, disoriented, barely able to keep himself together. It was still snowing and he desperately wished to be back in Boston.

She prays by the living room table in her colorful, flowered head scarf while the Franks have tea. It’s Tuesday evening and Grandma M is getting bored of America and the mundane routines of her daughter’s family. She notices that Mr. Frank hardly speaks and when he does, she never hears him. When he doesn't speak, he reads newspapers or falls asleep on the couch. Her youngest granddaughter spends most of her time in a room that is never neat, sitting on her unmade bed with a laptop on her legs. Grandma M wants to take walks outside, but is afraid of approaching strangers who might converse with her in English. Nothing is familiar to her, not Manchester Street, not the Safeway Grocery store or the Greek Church on the other end of Manchester Street.

Earlier in the morning, she practiced the alphabet with her youngest granddaughter, and then when her granddaughter returned to her room, she practiced writing her A’s and B’s some more. When noon came, she went off to make lunch, searching the cabinets for cooking pans and dishes. Cooking, she decided, was the one thing that required no English.

As they drink tea, she confirms that she won’t be staying for long.

“I am too much trouble for you guys,” she says and Mrs. Frank frowns, reassuring her mother that she is wanted here and that she should not think such things.

Perhaps America is too complicated at this moment and the girls aren’t always there to make her happy and listen to her stories. But Grandma M is not ready to go back yet; she is too excited to learn English, to be intermingled with American pleasures.

She had her coffee in a red mug by the fireplace, her notebook and novel sitting next to her, the sun beaming inside through the blinds. The house needed cleaning; the tables needed dusting, so did the window sills and the kitchen cabinets. She was hosting a party that night for her girlfriends. None of the girls celebrated Christmas, and yet they had all agreed to throw a party anyway, get in the holiday spirit and enjoy each other’s company. They always had fun when they got together on Saturday nights, dancing, drinking, gossiping, discussing their future plans, their marriages and break-ups. She finished her last sip of coffee and put the mug aside. It was the first day of winter and everything seemed perfect. She was relaxed and decided to take a walk. She would do the cleaning later.

We have talked about colors before, haven’t we? We have talked about the colors of autumn, colors that make life lovable, livable, colors that give us hope and faith. We have talked about orange and auburn and red and why they are your favorite colors, why they light up your day and make you glow. We have talked about the colors of day and night, the baby blue of the morning sky and the pitch black of the night sky. And we never forgot your mesmerizing green eyes, did we? Or your sister’s sparkling, dark brown eyes?

Tomorrow we should talk about the colors of winter. We should talk about the red sky right before a snowy day and the white snow that disguises everything. We should always talk because we always listen to each other, as good friends, as good sisters. And then you can tell me how to be a better person, a better friend, a better writer. You can tell me and I promise to take it all down, memorize every word.

A cheer to the colors of our flags, the colors of our homes, the colors of life.

I enjoyed my coffee finally; it was perfect. Not too bitter, not too sweet, but a perfect balance between the two. It was two days before Christmas. She was looking for ice-cream in the frozen aisle and I was sipping my drink, waiting. The shoppers were buying their Christmas foods and goodies, chocolates and sweets, Christmas cards and Santa hats, Champaign bottles and expensive wines. There was no line for caffeine addicts like myself; the little Starbucks inside the grocery store was practically empty. Just as I was savoring my last sip, she showed up, holding a bucket of ice-cream, and told me to get up. Outside, a woman in a Santa hat was asking for donations. I didn't have a dollar bill.

We have gathered in the living room, drinking tea again, eating Maman’s chocolate cake. And Grandma is telling us about her house in Mashad where she used to rent rooms to young college girls. Tomorrow is Christmas day and we are telling Grandma about the things people will be doing. It’s like our own new year, my sister tells her. Families gather and spend the whole day together. Somehow the conversation moves to our apartment in Tehran, the basement and the big walnut tree that grew in the garden. I suddenly miss those days. The days when I belonged to Tehran, when I was little, living in a house with a walnut tree, with a red bicycle that Daddy bought when I was seven. The days when I stood, watching the tree in awe, feeling small.

The night’s conversation ends a little after 12 and everyone goes to bed. And I stay awake to write about Tehran. Again.

He woke up the next day in his hotel room with a hangover. He pushed his blanket aside, sat up, reached for a bottle of aspirin, then dropped his head back down on the pillow. Damn, he said out loud. He had class today and he wouldn’t make it. The sun was bothering him; the blinds were slightly open. New York was killing him; the city stank, the cab drivers were crazy, honking aggressively, and everything was too damn expensive. He couldn’t make his body move. He was tired, exhausted, and felt paralyzed. An hour passed and he finally got out of bed, took a shower, got dressed as hurriedly as he could, and walked out of the hotel with his one suitcase. As he got into a cab, he remembered the terrible funeral and felt a knot in his stomach. He asked the driver to get him to the airport as fast as he could because he couldn’t stand the sight of Manhattan anymore. Because he couldn’t breathe and everything made him sick and he wanted to throw up. The driver, a friendly, middle-aged man with a heavy Indian accent, told him not to worry; they would get there in no time.

Inside the airport, he got himself a cup of coffee and sat himself down on a chair. He had never forgotten her and had hated himself for not having that last coffee. He had thought about her a lot during those four years that she was gone, and he had read her emails over and over again. He had realized that she had given him more than he had given her, that she had cared for him too much, that she had always been there as a friend. He had denied his feelings, his growing attraction towards her. He had convinced himself that she was a student and he a professor and that nothing should happen. He had convinced himself because he had feared that those feelings could turn into a fatal attraction.

And now that he sat inside a grim airport, drinking a cold, bitter coffee, he could no longer deny those feelings, feelings that could have grown into a deeper love had they not been dismantled. He threw his empty cup away and headed for his gate. He would go back home, eat a nice meal, and he would let her go like he did four years ago.

The end

So I sit behind the glass window to watch the rain, to sip my hot coffee, to face an empty street on Christmas Day. And I like this setting, the rain even, the by passers who look for an open coffee shop. I am glad that I am not in New York yet, that I’m here with mom and dad and my sister and grandma. I like that it is raining and I’m drinking coffee and it’s not bitter anymore. I love the steam that rises from my cup, the foggy windows, and the cheery faces that smile. I love it Mom and you were so right to tell me that America is heaven. You were so right that it couldn’t get any better than this for us. I hated this place so much at first and I thought that you betrayed me by taking me away from a land I was just getting to know. I thought that I wouldn’t get anywhere here and I was wrong mom. I was wrong.

So I sit now, with her, and we enjoy the warmness of our cups and we watch the rain. And we both love it. I don’t have to say anything. I can just sit still and indulge the air, the aroma of Christmas, and be the happiest girl in the world. Mom, dad, thanks for bringing me here. I will write for you always, and I know that you will read and I hope that you see that it’s all because of you.

Calling them great is an understatement. No, they were far beyond great. They were extraordinary children. They were anything but ordinary. Grandma’s children were too pure, too good, too great, too ambitious, too important to die. On the surface they seemed like ordinary kids who loved to play, who walked on the sandy beach, made faces for the camera, and secretly ate their mother’s hidden pot of blackberry jam. But beneath their sparkling, killer eyes, they were fighters of freedom. They wanted independence and justice. They were too young to die under the hands of the unjust, the unworthy. They were too young to suffer what they suffered. They were too young, too beautiful to die.

I have looked at their black and white photographs. Aunt Mina’s keeps coming back to me, her angelic face, her simple, sincere half-smile in every photo, her short, silky, black hair. A tomboy. Maman says Mina wore slacks at a time when women were expected to wear skirts. At Maman's wedding Mina had her hair done at the salon and hated it so much that she'd combed it back straight. She was different from other girls. All you have to do is look at her eyes and then you'd know. There is something about those eyes of hers. They sparkle, they talk. Mina’s eyes talk. They tell you that this girl is not ordinary, that she will do great things, that her heart is a pot of gold, big, full of love. That she is a rebel, stubborn, ready for anything.

I am trying to picture that snowy night when the Shah’s secret police-The SAVAK-shot her in the back. I am trying to see Aunt Mina running into the night, struggling to pick up her feet in the snowy field. She runs 100 meters, Grandma says, and then she falls, just 26 years old. Grandma tells me she didn’t cry because Grandpa had prepared her. She says that when they got the news, Grandpa held up his hands in prayer and thanked God that his Mina was killed for a cause, that she hadn’t died in a car accident or from something ordinary. He was proud that his daughter had died a fighter, a martyr.

I ask Grandma how she accepted the death of her children. She says God. I left it all to God and accepted his doings, she says matter-of-factly. I don’t ask her anymore because I start crying, for them, for the pain that Maman and Grandma went and still go through. And I know that I have to tell their story. Somehow, in some way, I have to tell why they were so extraordinary, why they were so invaluable, why they are so missed. I have to tell their story because they deserve to be remembered and known for what they did, for who they were, for what they could have been. Calling them extraordinary is not an overstatement, it's not just a mother's love, it's not her exaggeration and pride, it's a fact.