It was morning.
Rain was falling.
The children were running around the orange tree in the villa’s yard.
Whenever they screamed,
the clouds would tremble.
Soraya had forgotten to bring the wet clothes in from the rope they were hanging to dry
The world was full of promises,
and isn’t it promises that keep us alive?
There was a promise tucked in all our shirt pockets:
“That tomorrow we’ll go to the foothills of Damavand mountain. Not the summit.”
Just getting to Hoseynabad would be enough.
So we could watch Casablanca for the hundredth time, beside Soraya.
Then we’d drink tea—
Lahijan tea.
Then smoke a cigarette,
one of those flavored ones.
Like cocoa or coconut.
Then we’d listen to a song.
Maybe this very song.
Then morning would come.
Then we’d go lose ourselves in the Damavand mist,
buy hot soup from Grandma Marziyeh,
and sit on the old tree stump in the neighborhood.
Eat the soup, and hot fresh bread
The phone wouldn’t have any signal, and we’d say:
“To hell with it.”
No war, no missiles,
no refugees looking for a safe place,
trapped in their metal cabins
on endless roads,
no tiny drones taking the place of real birds—
just love and Casablanca.
Let no one grow old,
let no dreamy skin wrinkle.
And then, let us shout in each other’s faces and say:
“Your healer is himself ill…”
