A Place to Call Home

It’s a small apartment. A very small two bedroom. Enough. I have no desire for large houses. there is enough light, many windows, even in the bathrooms, and Sam has his own bedroom. He is happy. I didn’t raise him with the Persian standards of the more the better. He is happy to have a little privacy and to invite friends over. This is Home.

I put my purse down and sit on the floor. There is no furniture. What would mom think? She would be disappointed for sure. In her world, the same world that I was brought up  in, that of conservative bourgeoisie, happiness cannot be achieved if you do not possess the right furniture. People who sit on the floor are not only of inferior breed, they will not and cannot be happy. In that sense, she is a lot like Americans. Everyone seems to be devoted to money here, too. I am no exception either. I am a child of the same culture. The only difference is where I like to Put my money:

I used it to buy freedom…


It is always the same thing: the little girl, almost three, with her long curly hair and big dark eyes, looking at me with a piercing gaze. I know better now that there is no way I can go closer to touch her or hug her, or maybe to apologize. I look at the small figure in the loose white dress and my heart aches with the desire to touch her soft curls, to run my fingers over her cheeks, and to hear her, just one more time, say  “MOM”.