“Babe? What’re you doing?” Jon called up from the second floor.
I didn’t answer. I was holding a sleeping Eloisa, seated at my metal desk, parked in front of the laptop. Ezzy was on her virtual PreK, and I couldn’t admit to him what I was up to.
My husband doesn’t understand why I get lost in thoughts of loss, why that loss brings me to tears. Happy memories are there too, ones that make me smile, but I want for the universe to know their lives mattered. That we think about them and carry them in how we move in the world and tell their stories.
I heard him come closer.
“Wait, are you crying?” He looked concerned.
I shooed him away.
Maybe it was the mid-March melancholy of Chicago again, cold and grey. Maybe it was because Nowruz, the Persian New Year, is in a few days.
Who writes letters to their dead grandparents between Zoom meetings during the day?
Dear Baba Qaher,
I don’t wear short skirts anymore. I married the good man my dad called you about. He honors me and loves the children. We have four. I earned several degrees. You’d be proud. I haven’t written a book yet, but it’s still on the list. The Phd too.
Dear Maman Ghanieh,
I try to be softer. At night after dinner, each and every time I sweep and wash dishes, I think of you. You’re right, coming down to a clean kitchen is best. Part of your roo-sary hangs in my closet between my dresses. Thank[s] God Sahary cut it in half so we could each keep a piece. I finally gave one of my children your mother’s name. We call her Eloisa Nasim.
Dear Baba Ghambar,
I remember your laugh above all. The way you’d play with me without tiring, trotting me on your back. I remember Saltines with butter dipped in sugar, perched on stools at Rezy’s high-top table. That winding walk to the entrance of Deauville Court. It was still dark. I swelled with pride when you said you had heard I got a scholarship – you knew before me.
Dear Maman Ezzy,
I feel you in my house all the time and I don’t know if it’s because you are namesake to our third, or if your movements remain with me because you lived with us longest. Afi used to say it was easier imagining you were still in Iran and I have to agree. I dream of you making salad olvieh, among your sisters, asking if I want another noon khamei.
Dear Amu Wahob,
Sometimes during savasana I slip toward thoughts of you, your smiling eyes, your regal gait.
Dear Khaleh Rasmieh,
When I was 16 visiting Gothenburg you read my coffee grounds and told me there was a trail of children behind the long length of my wedding veil. You were right.
All of your places are empty.
Hameesheh jahatoon ra khali mikonim.
Slice of Life, Day 17
I love the way you have added the audio to your post. There is always something about hearing an author read their own words. Of course, I’m equally glad I stopped as your wrote about your grandparents. My grandparents were the world to me and though I lost them many years ago now I think of them often. I enjoyed learning a little about you and each of your grandparents as I read through your letters.
Your memories are eloquent, connected heartstrings from earth to heaven. They catch us at the oddest times, yes? Maybe because of children, their presence causing us to ponder the legacy we’ll leave, leading us to think of what’s behind us, like that wedding veil.
Someday we will talk about grandparents– what mine were and were not and how I hope to be one day.
I love that you keep all of them with you both in thoughts and names. Concrete objects and daily practices, as well. That’s true immortality to me.
Such a gorgeous post and tribute to your grandparents. This should be a book.
I have a deep appreciation for the letters to your departed family members. I can feel the sense of longing for them in the missives you composed.
I am going to have to try doing this for my maternal grandparents, with whom I was extremely close. I don’t think I’ll be able to publish it on my blog, but I want to do it… for myself. Thanks for the inspiration, Nawal.
BTW: Do you know why the SOLSC is in March? Well, I was in a total funk in the winter of 2008 since my maternal grandmother, my final living grandparent, passed away on 3/24/07. I was having a hard time adjusting to life without her since she missed my wedding, which was in December 2007. (My maternal grandfather passed away on 3/16/90, which was a few months before my Bat Mitzvah.) March was looming and I thought HEY, WHY NOT DO A DEEP DIVE INTO WRITING WITH MY STUDENTS SO I CAN FORGET MY SORROWS. Over a decade later, it’s still in March.
I came back for the photos and am so glad I did. This makes me think about the place poems we are discussing and nudging me towards the space I need to be think about writing mine. I cry all the time as a write. Sounds silly but I cried as I sent my kids a note in the St. Patrick Day cards I sent them at college. Writing to someone or about someone is such a personal and vulnerable act. Everything is exposed within and on the page. Your husband will get used to it — I promise. This line will be my inspiration: I want for the universe to know their lives mattered. That we think about them and carry them in how we move in the world and tell their stories. Thank you.
Nawal, what a wonderful post. Your thoughts of these special people whom you still hold in your heart. I love that we see relatives’ names in your children, Ezzy and Eloisa. I love the memories of those who would be particularly proud of some accomplishment or yours or a specific memory, such as the coffee reading.
What a beautiful idea for a prompt. I think I will write some notes to my departed relatives. Thank you for the inspiration.