Dad,
Eight years
Since pleading with the paramedics
In our hotel room
In freezing Mashhad
To bring you back to life
To wake you up
But no surgical knife
Could chase your smiling soul
💔
I can hear you: ‘Son, dont bawl
Your eyes. I’m resting, perfect.’
I look up
To the windless skies
You’re smiling, still. 🖤
Mashhad, Iran ❄️ 5/1/2013
Last night I was changing the bedsheets when that day sprinkled over my mind like snow caps a mountain. Beautiful. Brutal.
This always happens when I’m making the bed. I’m banished to that day at that hotel we stayed in Iran, when time stood still or it slowed down or it vanished or as the calendar tells me, it went on as normal… Seems like a galaxy ago now. Seems like yesterday. It was snowing in Mashhad. You took a photo of me outside the hotel and laughed because I was wearing gloves, remember? Back in the hotel room, it seemed like the bedsheets had conspired with the world outside, for they were also criminally cold and snow-white. Do you remember feeling them, dad? When the paramedics gently pulled them over your face…
Come visit. We’ll take photos again. This time, you can don the gloves.
