We Were All We Had
My sister Maryam and I arrived home from school one afternoon, and Baba announced that we were going to the neighborhood park. We squealed with excitement and followed him outside, where he was jogging in place, a goofy smile plastered on his face, his tan tracksuit baggy on his slender frame. We trailed behind him on the mile or so run to the park: a small bespectacled brown man, his lean, bearded cheeks filling up with air that he forced out in a rapid whoosh, whoosh. And behind him, two tiny girls—seven and five years old—trying desperately to keep up.
Maryam and I gleefully watched Baba traverse the playground, from one piece of equipment to another, like an obstacle course. We followed him on the monkey bars, mimicked his jumping jacks, tried to sit on his back when he did pushups. I relished these outings for briefly pulling me out of our apartment, for helping me forget the feeling of limbo that hung over us each day. Our lives felt unwieldy, stretched taut across two countries, forever in search of ground to plant our roots.
On our walk back, I grabbed Baba’s hand, warm and comforting in the cool Northern California air. As we approached our apartment building, Maryam and I raced to it, running up the steps to the door, where we were greeted by the smell of Maman’s dinner—the herbal aroma of that wrapped itself around us like a doting relative. Inside, she lifted the lid of the stew pot, steam obscuring the frown on her face. She looked up, not at us, but at the television across the entryway in the living room, blaring Leila Forouhar songs against images of my smiling Uncle Masoud. He had been married in Tehran the previous year, but we couldn’t go. His wedding video arrived in the mail weeks later, and Maman played it on repeat.
