UNDER THE FLICKERING LIGHT OF THE STILL NIGHT YOU WILL FIND…

issue 3 by d. marvi

Someone is holding my hand. We are walking down the gravel covered stairs of our garden, and go past the persimmon tree. It is fall. Orange leaves cover the moss

speckled ground. It is cold and the wind nips at my cheeks. I wasn’t supposed to go outside because of the cold that I love so much, so I started to cry. Someone, a man,

agreed to take me to the garden. The stairs are too steep for my short legs. I look down at my mary-jane clad feet and feel afraid. I trust whoever is holding my hand and with

their guidance, ease my way down the step. I feel happy.

My mother is on the phone, laughing and speaking Persian, as I watch her from the staircase. I am three years old. I feel alienated and different from the other kids already, yet I yearn to speak my parent’s language. I feel overwhelmed with shame listening to my mother. If we weren’t so different, we would belong. It’s because my parents talk differently, isn’t it? “SPEAK ENGLISH” I scream. She looks over at me and rolls her

eyes. I run upstairs, crying. Where do I belong?

Pedar-jaan has just given my sister and I two small toy animals, a dog and a cat, made of rabbit fur. He brought them for us from Iran. We make them fight, smashing their

faces together while screaming and laughing. We hear a loud crack, and realize the glass noses of our pets have broken. We begin to wail. Pedar-jaan comforts us, then carefully

fixes their noses with glue. They look as good as new.

Father’s mother is here. I am afraid of her black chador. I don’t understand what it is. I think it is what ghosts wear. She cannot speak English very well and I don’t know any Persian. I love her anyways. I am sitting on the steps outside the dining room, shelling

fava beans with my sisters. It’s a sweltering day, so I am naked except for a prized pair of boy’s mickey mouse underwear. Grandmother laughs at me. I feel embarrassed of my

nudity, thinking her laughter is intended to mock, so I run and hide in my room.

Pedar-jaan is in the guest room. He is praying, facing mecca, with his prayer rug and stone. I don’t understand what he is doing and think it is a fun game. I place my security blanket besides him and begin to mimic his movements. I try my best to copy what he is saying, but my tongue does not fit well around the Arabic words. Pedar-jaan looks over at me and laughs, and we continue our prayer together. I don’t want him to leave, ever.

My mother’s cousins have come from Sweden to visit us. I think they are some of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. I am shy, and hide in the storage room under

the stairs. I am located right across from the dinner table they sit at, and peek out from them through the slightly open door. I think I am being tricky, but I was caught easily enough. The youngest of our visitors comes over to me and says “I have something for you. It’s a special cake called a ‘prinsesstårta.’” I pad over to the table and behold the most beautiful cake I have seen. The cake is covered in smooth mint green marzipan,

icy white frosting, and bedecked with two sets of miniature, plastic pastel balloons. I fall in love with both the look of it and it’s raspberry jam and whipped cream!

I forced myself to forget almost everything, but I still yearn for the past.

It hurts too much to remember.

I am a stranger to myself.

...YOURSELF...