Early in the morning, both of us woke up. That day was the last day of Mersedeh and Fereydoun's stay. Half-finished tasks had to be completed. There was a sense of urgency in our movements, while Fereydoun, the only calm one among us, was used to such trips. He watched our hurried actions keenly, sometimes laughing at our impatience.
We hadn't thrown a farewell party for them, but close relatives came to say goodbye. After a pleasant gathering, we collectively escorted Fereydoun and Mersedeh to the airport. My mother and I exchanged glances, hiding our tears from one another. I could now feel her emotions over the distance from her children. They were the eldest, and naturally, a special bond existed between them. I recalled how my mother used to confide in Mersedeh, sharing her heart. They understood each other perfectly, and now, as they parted, I could see the pain of loneliness and separation in their faces.
I did not know whether I was crying for being alone myself or for my mother, separated from her children. When Mersedeh and I hugged each other in farewell, she whispered softly in my ear, "Please, take care of mother and father." I looked into her teary eyes; though I had no clear idea how to care for them, I promised.
When the airplane took off, a deep sense of emptiness and loneliness enveloped me.
Back home, without Mersedeh, I entered my room and cried bitterly. I whispered to myself:
It is hard to be apart from a loved one,
Hard to remain behind, stagnant in life,
Like a dried-up spring in debt,
Without her, I empty life from the cup of moments,
And my face twists in the bitterness of it.
Without her, I live in silent screams.
My soul sings the song of leaving,
And my cries remain
In an empty space devoid of sound.
I looked around; how empty her absence felt. On the chair beside her bed, a blouse she had left behind lay waiting. I picked it up, pressed it to my chest, and remembered my father's words: Human nature is such that while together, we do not appreciate each other, but we weep when parted. I thought that there could be no greater pain than separation. I asked myself, "Can you endure this?"
Standing before the mirror, I gazed at my reflection and answered the Mina in the mirror, "Yes, I can endure it, for I promised to take care of father and mother." I had to conceal my grief. They must not read sorrow on my face. From today, I must be my mother's companion and solace—just like Mersedeh.
I left my room and went downstairs, sitting beside my mother. She released the grief in her heart with a long sigh. I poured a glass of water for her and handed it over. She looked at me with gratitude, saying, "The house has become so quiet. It feels like life is no longer here."
We sat in silence. Only the drip of water from the tap could be heard. My father seemed asleep, yet I knew he too was thinking of the empty places left by his children. I looked around at the dishes scattered in corners. A few hours ago, this house had been full of commotion. Now it was cold and silent. Mother sat lost in thought, holding the glass. What could I say when I myself was sad?
I stood up, gathered the dishes, and cleaned the living room. My mother, with a voice that seemed to rise from the depths of a well, said, "Go rest; I'll clean them tomorrow." I could not tell her that my room, without Mersedeh, had lost all charm and warmth. I could not tell her that I could not bear her absence. With a forced smile, I continued my work. Seeing me busy, mother got up to help. I said, "You go rest; I'll finish it." But she, always ready to lend a hand, did not heed me and kept working. The clock struck half past midnight. We were both too exhausted to stand any longer.
Father came into the kitchen in his pajamas, opening the refrigerator, and asked, "You're not thinking of going to bed tonight? Do you know what time it is?" I looked at his face; there was no trace of sleep. His eyes seemed as if they had never known the presence of slumber. I said, "You haven't slept either." He yawned and replied, "Would your noise even let anyone sleep?" I knew well that his sleeplessness was not because of our noise, but I said nothing.
When I said goodnight, father turned off the chandelier in the living room and said, "Sleep well." It lingered in my heart. Though the phrase was repeated every night, tonight it carried a melancholy tone. I stood on the stairs, watching him head to the bedroom, and said, "Sleep well too."
I went up the stairs and switched on the light in my room. The room was dark with the stillness of night. The weight of night sat heavily upon the cold shoulders of the window. The distant call of a night bird reached my ears. There was no other sound. Only silence rolled through the room. My room stretched wide with a sense of grief. Exhausted, I fell asleep.
In the morning, I awoke to my mother's gentle touch. She said, "Get up, get ready—we're going for your registration." We went about our tasks in silence, and along the way, we barely noticed each other's presence. Both of us walked quietly. I cast my eyes around, wanting to remember the place well. Seeing school bags hanging in shop windows reminded me that the schools were reopening. Stationery had been arranged neatly in the displays.
As we passed a store, my mother glanced at the uniforms but then moved on without asking anything. I wanted to ask, "Will you buy it for me?" but I didn't dare disturb her quiet. I walked alongside her, yet it felt as if we didn't know each other. I wished I could understand what she was thinking at that moment. Was her mind still on Fereydoun and Mersedeh, or on my school registration?
The presence of people standing behind the shop windows, gazing at the goods, reminded me to focus on the school. I wondered what it would look like, and whether I would find friends like in my previous school. I recalled Mersedeh's words: "We are both strangers here, but you will make friends sooner than I did." That memory warmed my heart, and I told myself that I would make good friends this year as well and strive to be an excellent student in this new school.
After passing through three or four intersections, a wide side street revealed a building with red bricks ahead. We paused for a few moments in front of the entrance, glanced at the sign, and then stepped inside.
Ahead of us was a large courtyard, in the center of which a volleyball net was stretched. Along the edge of the yard, a narrow garden extended all the way to the end. Classrooms facing the sun awaited the students. An elderly man sat on a chair near the entrance. We greeted him; he did not recognize us at first but realized that we were newcomers.
Mother asked about the office. The elderly man rose and led us ahead, guiding us through a long, wide corridor. The classrooms were all spacious and arranged in rows alongside each other. At the end of the corridor, we turned into a smaller hallway. The elderly man stopped in front of a door, knocked a few times, and then opened it. We entered the office.
Several women were seated behind separate desks. The office was both large and busy. Mother approached one of the desks and, saying "Excuse me," drew the attention of the woman sitting there. The woman first glanced at mother and then at me, asking, "How can I help you?"
Mother greeted her and explained the relocation, expressing her hope that I would enroll there. The woman looked at me once more and asked, "Which grade are you in?" I replied, "I will be in the fifth grade." She examined my file and reviewed my report cards. Then, with a satisfied smile, she said, "Your records are excellent. I hope you will be a successful student here as well."
From her tone, we knew there would be no problem and that I would be enrolled. She closed the file, gestured toward a desk, and said, "Take this to that desk," pointing with her finger. After reviewing my file, she smiled again in satisfaction and, while registering me in the office, said, "This school has specific rules which I hope you will follow, just like the other students." She then took out a form and said, "Please fill out this commitment form."
Mother and I sat down and read through it. The form stated that no student should act against school regulations, and if any student violated them, the school administration had the right to expel them. I signed as the student, and mother as the guardian, and handed the form to the registrar. She looked at our signatures and said, "We will see you on the first day of the school year. You can also purchase your uniform from the shop near the school; however, do not alter the length of the uniform."
After leaving, we went to the recommended shop, bought the uniform and a binder, and returned home by bus so that I could familiarize myself with the route as well.
I was sitting on the bus, lost in thought. I remembered a piece I had written in the sixth grade for school and my classmates:
The flower garden knows its blooms,
Flowers that grow in the month of Mehr.
Beside the jacarandas, the night-blooming jasmine,
On the azure edge of morning,
Upon the old soil of the schoolyard.
Flowers come waiting for the rain,
On the petals of the Persian flower for the teacher!
Restore the ruined garden of thought.
When the buds arrive joyfully,
Pour down the rain of your mercy.
Though it was not a complete piece, I remembered how much encouragement I had received from my teacher and how she had asked me to read it again for the students. What a good teacher she had been…
The sound of a window opening made me lift my head. I saw the window across the way swing open. The shadow of a man drawing the curtains seemed to tease me. How is it that without being seen, the heart in my chest begins to race? I needed to erect a barrier around my heart so that, as Mersedeh had said, "the breeze doesn't steal away the memory of love."
I rose and left the room, for two black eyes might be waiting behind that window. Loneliness gnawed at me so much that I wished the objects around me could speak and converse with me. To fill the emptiness, I returned to my room, picked up a book, and began reading.
The sound of poetry rooted me to the spot. I sat and listened while continuing to study. This time, I could hear the speaker's voice clearly. His poem carried the echo of loneliness. He too lamented separation and solitude—just like me.
The ticking of the telephone pulled me back. I picked up the receiver; it was mother. She said, "I'm downstairs. If you're free, come down." I replied, "I'm coming." I hung up, having heard the final poem of loneliness, and went downstairs.
Mother had bought fresh herbs and planned to cook a thick soup in honor of Fereydoun and Mersedeh's departure. I didn't understand the significance of this act—why make a "traveler's soup"? When I asked her, she explained that it was a tradition, so that the traveler would reach their destination safely and, as they say, "have a smooth journey."
Mother noticed how lonely I was and how bored I seemed. While chopping the herbs, she said, "Your days of solitude will end in a few days when school reopens. It's good for a person to have a goal and work toward it." I looked at her, but her head was bowed, and she seemed to be speaking to herself. She continued, "Being unplanned and trapped in loneliness is tormenting. It stifles the mind and body and causes them to decay."
A person without a goal is like an autumn leaf caught in the storm's grasp, drifting aimlessly in every direction, only to be eventually crushed underfoot and disappear. One must have a purpose, keep moving, and make an effort. You too must act and not let your spirit fall prey to despair and hopelessness. If you want to succeed, you must study well and face challenges without fear.
I said, "I know."
She smiled and added, "Before you know it, Nowruz will arrive, and Mersedeh will return. You must show that you have succeeded, just like her. I am confident you will like your new high school. You have a good principal and headmaster, and I hope your teachers are good too."
I said nothing and continued helping her wash the herbs.
Our tasks were finished when Mrs. Ghadessi came to visit and sat down to talk with mother. I went to my room, sat down, and resumed studying. The record player had stopped, and instead I heard the voice of a man giving lessons. I could see his shadow through the window and hear the tone of his voice, paying attention to the words he used for teaching. Occasionally, he paused to answer a question, and a woman's voice could also be heard. I wished I were in her place, studying as well.
With the September exams approaching, I grew restless and went downstairs again. Mrs. Shokouh asked, "Are you bored?" I replied, "Yes." Then I asked, "Does your son give private lessons?" She said, "Yes, even during the summer he's busy. He takes on private students. Have you had to repeat a grade?"
Mother laughed and answered for me, "No, Mina is the top student. Thankfully, my children are diligent and smart." Mrs. Shokouh nodded in agreement and asked, "Don't you have a record player?" Mother said, "No."
Mrs. Shokouh smiled and said, "It would be good for Mina so she isn't alone. You should get a record player." Mother replied, "Schools will open in a few days, and Mina won't have much time to listen." Mrs. Shokouh agreed, "Yes, that's true. I don't mind, but Kaweh and Kamran listen—they're alone too, and listening to music keeps them occupied."
I wished Mrs. Shokouh would bring their record player so I could listen to a few songs too, but since she didn't offer, I remained silent.