Where is my home? Is it here where I feel safe and secure, but uprooted and alone? or Is it Iran where I had tried my heart out to escape from, where everything used to sadden me to death, but all my loved ones reside in?
Where is my home? Is it here where everyone seems so caring and loving but you share absolutely no memories with? Or is it Iran where you ve got absolutely no time to spend with your friends to talk about those sweet memories or even if you find some time no one is up for a get-together?
Where is my home? I can’t help but wonder.
Before Norooz (The Persian New Year) you can find colourful pansies in small boxes being sold, I envy those pansies, they go everywhere with the soil they have planted in. I envy them, I wish I were a pansy, traveling with my own root and with my nurturing soil.
I wish I could bring Norooz with me here, my Mom, my dad, my sisters and my brother, my friends, the street I fell in love in for the first time, my florist from whom I got the first red rose, Yalda (another Persian celebration on the last day of Autumn), Kish Island, Bazarche Ketab (the bookshops), Ali (ali agha, our local grocery shopkeeper) from whom I bought my first magazine………………………………………. , all those trees,….
I wish I ……………….. .
Life is frought with AHHHHHHHHHHHHHs and I wishes and Ifs when you are an Iranian, even if you are in the most livable city.
