by Azadeh Amirsadri
Mom, what was it like for you to hand your one-year-old to your mother-in-law and father-in-law, and leave the continent for what turned out to be an 18-month stay in a country where you didn’t speak the language? Your husband was in school all day, learning French and studying for his degree, and you were home alone with your 3 and a half -year-old and pregnant with your next baby. You said you would look out the window and just cry some days because you felt so lonely when he was out. Did your toddler see your tears and hear your voice cracking as you were feeding her, rocking her, and playing with her? Once your baby was born, how did you manage to take care of your tiny children without your own family around, without speaking French fluently yet, and with a hole in your heart? You said there was a particular song that reminded you of me, a song about someone with a delicate, crystal-like neck. Another song, Tak Derakhti (Lone Tree) by Pouran, was your sad song and described your feelings.
Mom, what was it like coming back home, after a long 18 months, with your two children, and I didn’t even know you? How quickly did you try to take me home to stay with you? I remember staying overnight at times with you and my sisters, and dad who was always busy reading a newspaper or writing. I was just spending the night with you all and would eventually go back to the comfort of my home with my grandparents, where the smells were familiar, and the sounds were quieter. I would go back to sleeping on the floor mattress with my grandmother, playing with her hair and mine, intertwining them into a big knot until I fell asleep. Her breath smelled like hot tea, and it was sweet and warm. I was super spoiled and loved by them, and that was my real home.
Mom, do you remember when your fourth child was born? She was a big, round, beautiful baby, and I came with my grandmother to visit you. You had all your cousins there, and they had brought flowers, mostly tall gladiola, and a lot of sweets, and you were all speaking in your own dialect. I didn’t understand it then, but oh how I miss hearing it now that you are all gone. My sisters and I were interested in the new baby and the sweets.
Mom, you told me when you had to go back to France for my dad to finish his doctorate, you had added me to your passport, along with my sisters’ names and pictures. I was to go with you, but my grandfather’s family was concerned for him and said he would not survive the separation because of his age. Did they ever think about you and what you wanted? Did anyone ask you if you wanted your child with you? Did anyone think about you, a young mother, and your rights to your own children? Or did that also get lost, as so many things do in obligations and reverence for the elders of the family? Did they ever think about what my grandmother wanted? Did they ever consider how this would impact my sisters and our relationship? Did my father have a say in it?
Do you remember when I joined you in Strasbourg? I was 6 years old and after landing in Frankfurt, my dad picked me up and handed me to you. You smelled good and looked at me as you hugged and kissed me. I didn’t recognize your voice, because in Iran, I thought your voice was like the singer Marzieh’s voice. Her songs were very popular, and every time, one particular song was played on the big wooden radio in my grandparents’ house, I would touch the radio thinking it was you singing. At my grandparents’ house, there were pictures of my father around, but I don’t remember any pictures of you or my sisters.
You took me home to the castle where you lived, and you asked my sisters to share their big tall dolls and Legos with me. After a few days, they were done sharing and I remember you got me my own tall doll. We went to the Orangerie with my grandparents and took pictures in that most beautiful park, more beautiful than anything I had ever seen. I had a sense of doom but didn’t know what it was. After some time, we all went to the airport for my grandparents to return home and I was holding my dad’s hand, crying. He asked me why I was crying and I said my stomach hurt because I already knew somehow, I couldn’t talk about why I was crying, or maybe I didn’t know how to talk about what I was feeling.
Mom, thank you for spending one-on-one time with me while you did laundry and hung the wash when we lived in Strasbourg. I loved putting my hands in the warm soapy water and helping you rinse things out. Thank you for understanding how much I missed my grandparents and for giving me a replacement for that love that had nowhere to go, that turned to grief.
Years later, when you kept saying I don’t know what to do with you when I was a rebellious adolescent, you told me you would forever regret not standing up to everyone in the family and taking me with you the second time. It’s all ok mom, because that grief and dealing with it has become my career and my voice when I write.