Shortly after my grandmother passed away, my other grandmother shared little memories and stories to honour and remember her with joy. According to details of this story, the event happened in March 1982 when my parents and I, my two grandmothers and my grandfather were going to a picnic to Mamasani. I added a found picture of the place and a lullaby. It doesn’t matter how much detail I gather for the story, it won’t get more accurate but rather invented. To be accurate I should say this is how “she” remembers it.
Hi my dear baba,
I finally finished the painting that you watched me started it. It took me longer that I anticipated. It’s a painting, which went through a tornado of thoughts and emotions and understanding of you and me. I am not going to say this painting is dedicated to my dad or surprise you at your birthday with a big canvas with an image of our lives on it.
I don’t own my paintings. I’m more of a custodian. What I own, what makes me creating them is a life, which has concerned you and your big heart.
How I wish the word love weren’t so elusive and had a clear sense to it. It’s like one says rose and everyone thinks of a different kind of rose. Then I would say that your love made me create. So please think deeply when you read this:
“ Your love made me responsible to create – gave me a reason to hope for future ”
There are so many things that I don’t know about you. I realized it when I thought of having a child. I realized that there are turning points, little moments and grand memories in my life that I even won’t have time to share with my child.
Or worse, I won’t share it to protect him/her. I realized there is part of you that I don’t know. I know that part of you after your first child’s birth, after I was born, after you became a dad. It was a fresh start to create a new you. There was a new life getting shaped knowing you as she took her first breath.
Painting a painting about us made me realized that it’s true that I don’t know what I don’t know before my life was started but I feel it. I own it. It’s my life. It’s saved and protected in my biological memory. It’s in your tune when you call my name. It’s in your hands and mom’s embraces. It’s in my sister’s bright eyes and big smiles. I am a grown up now. You are safe with me. I am safe with you. You don’t need to be so cautious about protecting me. Feel free and let everything be out …
I don’t know if my child asks me the same thing how I would react. How I would be a complete me not someone who became a mom one day after his/her birth. I don’t know …
But feel free
and honor your big heart
Your child, Niloufar
On a good day in summer of 2013
I asked you not once but many times if you heard me thrive
To the moon to the quietest sky
Where there is light and birds fly high
How I loved your black hair, your kindest eyes. How I adored your blameless sentiment, your guiltless honest love.
Time has passed and we woke up many mornings reshaped. There is only one thing that can keep me who I really am to you and myself. That is to keep it bright and brisk, young and green.
Did you hear my skin cracked to hold a bigger soul? Did you hear me thrive?
Between you and me
between my child and me
between your hands
between a dream and desire
between loneliness and remoteness
there is something that keeps my small heart warm.
My heart that I dreamt it up greater,
between waking up every morning and another simple incident
without knowing, with hidden desire,
Something that exists
that I have
that I want
I love you
Only if I could hear with my eyes… A dream room filled with white semi transparent voices floating in the air. They're not going to leave me like sounds heard by ears do. Whenever time passes by it takes away something from me either very significant or as small as tiny chance to exist. As everything was temporary and it belongs to its own time, I try to freeze, frame, and keep the moment to carry it away as long as possible to the time called future. Somehow deep down I'm not ready to let go the reality, which is gone far far away already.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
That Narrating sound
Was laughing … I cried
Was telling a story about an open window and the longest dawn.
A story about lost shoes and old sandals.
That Narrating sound
Was taking about you
We were there too
That narrating sound
Was talking about my eyes
My finished eyes
That narrating sound cried
Went and got lost
I closed the window
It was a cold autumn day when I picked up the latest volume of one of the literary magazines on the coach and tried to pretend that I understand the article. I wasn’t sure that my feet were cold or it was an impulse of what I was feeling. My dad used to say that read it even if you don’t understand it. One day you pick up a poem or a prose and without knowing you will understand. Don’t let it scare you.
It was about love and power of art. Here is what I remembered: “… Time is no limitation to love, since love creates time …” *
I’ve been captivated by the concept of time and its power, how it swallows us into its closed circled line where we experience the idea of loop. How is it love can create time?! I’m still not sure. Being surrounded by new mothers and pregnant women and of course instincts made me think of motherhood. What makes people to create another being despite all these difficulties?
I came across few lines in my head and I wrote few words to my child.
I bought the future
For the price of pain
For the price of years, fulfilled with love, without me
When you were invited to my body’s locked circle
When me became us
And you became hope to see the future I don’t see
After all those years, my toes felt the same autumn like chill. Feeling love towards my child I don’t have gave reality to how love can make time.
I know the author, Rastgoo*, probably meant something else but for the first time I grasped as big of a monster time is we’ve been fighting against it … somehow …