gradual changes. I believe in mending tears without causing new ones.
I have suffered deeply on a personal level because of the revolution and the following eight years of war. My life changed and I eventually became an immigrant, even if I never saw myself as one. Most immigrants come here to the U.S. for a better life. They come to make more money, have better opportunities and live more comfortably. I didn’t – I had a comfortable life and would have had a ton of opportunities in my own country. More importantly, I could have stayed with my family and taken care of my mom. Instead I was uprooted, and she ended up alone and broken because of the revolution and the ensuing war. It is true I could have gone back, many students did. But I never thought the situation, living outside my country, would become permanent. I always thought I would go back next year, or the year after.
“But I never wanted you to return to Iran. I thought I had been clear about that,” Mom says in a commanding manner – one that I have seldom heard. I keep forgetting that they all can read minds.
“You were young and had your own life. You were studying. You were also raising a son and had a family,” Mom protests.
“But Mom, you gave up everything for me. I should have---”
“What I did, I did for me. I enjoyed raising you and then watching you become the person you are today. No child is brought to the world at their own request. Parents make a choice to have a kid. It is only fair that they be responsible for the kids’ wellbeing, success, and happiness. The child needs to be free with no responsibility. All she has to do is to respect the time, energy, and love that is offered to her and become a good person, a useful individual,” Mom continues.
This opinion, that the parents are entirely responsible for the child, is what I grew up with. Mom always made me feel good about being a kid but she also made it easy for me and everyone else to take her for granted.
“But what about you?” I cry.
“I never expected you to do things for me. You brought enough joy to my life to last me a lifetime,” she says in an confident voice.
But I am not quite satisfied. Someone had to take care of Mom. If not me then it should have been Dad. He could have stayed with her and with me instead of disappearing. I don’t understand why Dad acted so selfishly and made our home into someone else’s home. Even if I forgive him on my behalf, I can’t do that on Mom’s behalf
“Honey, I don’t need a lawyer. I am standing right here,” Mom says, rolling her eyes in a humors way.
“But she is right,” Dad says, tearing up. “I deserve that. I was the one who ruined it for all three of us. I am so sorry.” Dad used to cry whenever he came to visit Mom and me after the so-called divorce. He loved Mom but sure had a strange way of showing it.
“Yes, you ruined our lives, and did it by listening to your sister instead of your own heart. It was as if you were under some spell. You, Mr. Logic, seemed to have lost your mind.” Mom has never been so straight-forward with Dad. I am proud of her.
“Yet, I am also to blame. Every relationship has two sides. I should have played my cards right. I didn’t. I can make excuses and say I got upset and reacted to your stupidity but that won’t make it right.” Mom pauses and looks at both Dad and me before continuing. “I had a choice. I chose to run away and hoped for you to come after me as if you were my prince charming. But we were too old for fairytales. I should have fought for our lives instead of giving up and running away.” Mom is the logical one after all.
“I wish you would have done that,” Dad says as he wipes his eyes.
“It is too late for wishes. What’s done is done. We both made mistakes. But I don’t want our mistakes to affect this child.” Mom turns to me. I wonder how Mom can forget I am over fifty now.
“You are still my child, no matter how old you are,” she says smiling.
There is no difference between shouting or not talking all together – Mom still replies to me immediately. She is quick in reading my mind.
“And you, my sweet child,” she emphasizes the word “child.” “If you torture yourself with things that are not in your control, and even if they were it won’t matter since the past is not coming back, you have not learned anything from me.” Mom steps forward and holds my face in her kind hands while looking into my eyes.
“Life is full of surprises. The thing to do is to embrace the surprises and make the best out of them. The years you have wasted worrying about me are not coming back to you. You must understand that I never expected, nor wanted, you to worry about me.
“We, your dad and I, had many wonderful years. We had love and we had good lives – much better than what you can imagine. And to top it off we had you. What else could we have asked for? We were luckier than most people.”
I reach for a tissue to wipe my tears and once I do, they have both disappeared. I take a deep breath and smile. Even after death and as a spirit, my mother is the most positive person I know.
I hit the rewind button on the DVD player and get up for some more green tea. I want to watch the parts I have missed and see if I can find more pictures of my parents on the walls.
Notes
This is the fourth in a series of five books to come. If you have enjoyed reading this story, you can find additional information about this book and the future ones at mojdeh.com
Copyright by Mojdeh Marashi 2011
About The Author
Mojdeh Marashi is a writer, translator, artist, and designer whose work is deeply influenced by the ancient and modern history of Iran. Her stories merge the world of magical realism in Persian literature that she grew up reading, the reality of the world she lives in today, and the utopia she dreams about. She was born in Tehran, Iran and moved to U.S. in 1977.
She is the translator (from Persian, with Chad Sweeney) of The Selected Poems of H. E. Sayeh: The Art of Stepping Through Time (White Pine, 2011). Her fiction was published in the anthology Let Me Tell You Where I’ve Been: Women of the Iranian Diaspora (University of Arkansas, 2006).
She holds an MA in Interdisciplinary Arts as well an MA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. She lives in Palo Alto, California.
What The Doves Said: The Director (Book Four) Page 5