Love In A Rice Field

Rice fields of Gilan, May 19, 2008.

The air smells so sweet and so delicious around a rice paddy in Northern Iran in the summer. You can smell the rice ripening in the fields. My friend, Maryam, who doesn't remember many things now, used to tell me stories about rice growth from planting to harvest. When I complained about how warm and humid Rasht was during the summer, making it difficult to move about and breathe, she would remind me that this is the weather rice needs to grow. I remember one day I told her how much I wished those clouds would gather and for rain to follow. Her beautiful and sweet face became thoughtful and as though she was talking to a child, she told me: "But if it rains, the rice would be ruined. You must be patient and pray that it wouldn't rain until after harvest time in Shahrivar. This is the wrong time of the year for rain." I was embarrassed for my ignorance and so thankful for her wisdom. For the rest of my life, I would remember Maryam as the woman who understood the earth and the nature of Gilan so much better than I ever could. She may not remember much, and chances are she will soon not remeber me either, but I remember her vividly, joyfully, and longingly tonight. Of her son I may have learned pain, but of her and her husband I learned nothing but love.