The fourth anniversary of Shahdi's departure is fast approaching (11/26). Life
has not been and will never be the same without her. Her memory is constantly in my
mind, visiting me at all times. She carpools with me every morning and evening
in the same car where she and Lauren were once my teenaged passengers on the
way to the Southpointe Mall. In the mornings we listen to NPR and I fill her in
on the changes since her absence, and in the evenings, we listen to the same
melancholy Spanish songs that my brother had selected for me shortly after her
death. I have not yet been able to replace this CD with another one. The same
way that I have not been able to touch Shahdi's clothes, books, and shoes which
are still in her closet. I hope I can literally force myself to give a few of
the books to my cousin's little girls as a gift from Shahdi this weekend.
I keep telling myself that our separation is only temporary. That someday we will reunite and I will hold her in my arms again. I try to trick myself into thinking of her departure as if she had left to go to college in a faraway land, like I did. She will not be back as I have not been back to Iran in decades. I tell myself someday I will see Shahdi and all the other loved ones (grandparents, aunts, and uncles) who have travelled to the other realm in the past forty years. We surely will have an amazing family reunion. In the meantime, I will continue focusing on finding distractions to make the remaining years meaningful and productive, particularly for Arman's sake. He now is the sole reason Mehrdad and I rise in the mornings. He is our anchor in this cruel, chaotic, and unjust world. It is because of him that we are able to function despite our bleeding hearts.
Every morning I sing (loudly if
Mehrdad is out with the dogs) the made-up song I used to sing to wake up our
kids when they were young. A song which was composed for them and called them
lovingly by name. I miss those wonderful days of their childhood when our home
was filled with warmth and laughter because of the two sweet children who lived
and breathed there. How their presence is missed!
Every night, before closing my eyes,
I still ask for Shahdi's forgiveness before wishing her a good night and
telling her how much I love her. I wish her sweet dreams wherever she is.
…
Shahdi is obviously not with me every
day. What is with me every day is the pain of not having her actual presence
with me. The pain of not seeing her, not hearing her voice, not being able to
greet her at home, not being able to talk to her on the phone, or to kiss her on
the cheeks, or to go out to dinner or coffee with her, or to offer her a gift,
a kiss, a hug, a pat on the back, etc. Those are the thoughts and emotions that
accompany me every single day, no matter where I am.
If I could access my long-term memory
in a way which I could remember every single day of Shahdi's life since birth,
then, I could have watched the replays until the end of my life. I have read some
books multiple times, I am sure I would have been thrilled to replay Shahdi's
life in my mind over and over again, Where was Dumbledore to offer me the means
of capturing my memory on a daily basis when my children were growing up? Alas,
such phenomenal abilities only exist in the land of fantasies.
…
I have a daughter. Her name is
Shahdi. She hastily opted to leave early for a land where there is no return.
Someday, when my time expires in this realm, I eagerly will seek her out in her
new land. We will be reunited, once again as a mother-daughter duo. I will
embrace her tightly, put her head on my chest and caress her long tresses,
while bestowing kisses to the top of her head. I will hold on to her and will
never let her go again. I will love and cherish her for eternity.
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