Her Son

This is a sad piece. My heart wrote it very early this morning. I dedicate it to Gol-e-Nargess.

Last night I couldn’t fall asleep, because of something I had learned yesterday. I was thinking of the fifth family I now directly know who lost a loved one in Iran-Iraq war. I was thinking about a mother, a sister, and a brother who have had to deal with their loss for years, seemingly never getting over it. I was also thinking about a story I had written, but which was too painful to go back and to re-visit, even if it was just to edit, proofread, and publish it on my blog. As tears ran down my face in the dark, landing on my pillow, I thought of that story again, feeling the obligation to finish it and to share it. I have no illusions about my readership, but for the few that do read my writings I think I will write the story soon. The stories of those who died in the war, whether people choose to call them heroes, martyrs, dead, lost, or missing, all sound the same on the surface. Digging deeper, however, there are distinct stories of each individual, who lived a unique life, touched others around him uniquely, and died a unique death, further touching and affecting the lives of those around him. Since their deaths, families and friends of dead soldiers have all had a life completely different from the lives they were living with their loved one. Their lives are now burdened with feelings of loss, bereavement, nostalgia, anger, and simple longing for the young man who never returned, the way his eyebrows raised in surprise or knotted in thought, the way a smile would dance on the corner of his mouth, the way his tall and lanky figure would fill the door frame, the way his practical jokes and foolery would delight his mother and sister, the way he would steal tah dig pieces from the plate on its way to the dinner table. So many of those families still have his bed just as he left it more than two decades ago, his clothes hanging in his closet, his soccer ball and his badminton racquets in a corner, his books and school notes neatly kept on a shelf. Those families are not waiting for their sons anymore. They are waiting for themselves to finally accept his absence from their lives, or to join him in heaven. There is a story to be told--quite naturally a sad one, just thinking about which stings my puffy and tired eyes this morning. I will tell it soon. Photo by Nader Davoodi, Iranian.com