I love the cloudy Spring mornings in Vancouver. It smells like
north of Iran in the spring. I can almost hear grandma and mum talking
in the morning, the kettle boiling water on the stove, and when mum sees me, she asks
me to put the grandma's fig jam on the breakfast table. The huge fig
tree in the old garden gives several kilos of big black fig, by around mid
June. Everyone in the family who is lucky enough to visit around then
would have taken some home too. The rest of the year, visitors would
have grandma's thick fig jam for the breakfast.
It's chilly in the
old house, except for the big room, where grandma sleeps. I open up the
curtains in the balcony, I might open up the the huge windows for a bit
as well, asking the morning fresh air to touch the breakfast table.
As
mum brings in the tray of tea, the oldest uncle (the only one who lives
in town) opens the balcony door from outside, brining in fresh
"barbari" bread. If I was lucky, some friend of grandma had brought
local eggs some days ago and then mum would have made sunny side up for
breakfast as well.
It's said that one must
live in the moment. This is also an old house I am living in, in
Vancouver. My living room is messy, as I have just arrived from Iran. I
have unpacked, but few things are remaing here
and there, on the floor and couch. When I am finished writing, I would make breakfast and start the day, but I know I am gonna be taken away again as soon as I open the fridge and smell the pepper mint I bought yesterday. I am gonna be taken to my mum's town, Bazaar this time. I think I must look for things to do here which would not take me away, things I would miss when I am not in this place, people as well. If I can't make it in a few years, I think I must leave. Everyone would end up where they belong to. I mean, they should.