My grandparents, the mother and Isfahan Iran the father of my mother, a dead baby brother I’ve never seen, grandmothers and aunts, chaste aunts—unmarried through religious choice, Isfahan Iran cousins and relatives: they’re all there, somewhere in a corner of my mother’s mind, in her family tree, in her narrative of times gone by.
My mother isn’t racked with melancholy. Melancholy doesn’t spring from her. Her will to live is strong. Although she recalls, with infinite longing, Isfahan Iran and meticulously reconstructs origins, goals, friendships and ties from the past, she is convinced that she lives in the present. “What do you want to eat today?” “Why are you leaving today?” “When are you coming back?” With these questions she claims Isfahan Iran her place solidly at the centre of my daily life. Her “Call, when you get there,” accompanies me like a refrain during my travels.
Where is Isfahan Iran? – Isfahan Iran Map – Map of Isfahan Iran Photo Gallery
My mother has a sense of the other, and would like her children to do everything she can no longer do herself, such as keeping relationships going: “Did you go to the funeral of so and so?” Or: “You should go and visit such and such a relative, find out how they’re doing.”
Sometimes I lose my patience: “Your travel destination is we hardly have to time to visit with each other!” I reply. My mother’s time was one of duty and respect, of friendships and visits. They belonged to a past that she knows very well is no longer with us.
I often sit and talk to my mother, even though she says: “You’re never here,” “Always in a hurry to leave.” I listen, with mixed emotion, to her stories and memories, which, even though I’ve them heard before, are surprisingly new. My mother is surprised that I remember everything from my childhood, even when I was only two years old: my father in Toronto while we stayed in my mother’s house; the move into my father’s house when he came back from Canada; my childhood years and my youth. At times I’m not quite certain if I’m remembering life as I lived it or simply my mother’s stories.
She questions me with her sweet, firm gaze. With her white hair and fresh and youthful skin. The memory of this strong, suffering and ailing, but always present woman will stay with me for a long time. I’ll remember her many illnesses, nights in hospitals, scrambles to get a doctor or medications at the drugstore, for her and for my father.
“I’m exhausted,” a friend at the University told me. “For three days I’ve done nothing but run around looking after my mother. I haven’t been able to write anything.”
I’m humbled: I’ve learned to keep silent on the issue of my parents’ illnesses, on the many days and endless nights that I spent by their side. I would otherwise be looked on as an oddball, unproductive, not suited for our times of speed that don’t allow for so many emotional ties and affections. My mother taught me that life is sacred and that we are the others. I leave aside the myths of productivity and speed. I’m content to see my mother’s smile, to get angry with her, to listen to her.
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