Panting and sweating, I arrived home. I leave the plastic bags, knotted to my fingers, so I could get rid of manteau and scarf, then I go to check every thing: first messages. I push the button of the answering machine. Biiib… it is Hananeh, she ask me to do something for her, again.

Biiib… Hassan is going to our house this afternoon.
Biiib… and my body become cold. Cold. Cold.
A nonsense feeling come out of it. Under my feet becomes wet. Wet. Wet. Time is locked and my color is gray, no doubt.

I move. The engraved women on the tape runs after me .I stop. She stops. I lay her out, but she doesn’t move. I cry, she cachinnates.

And now, she lay besides me, and she presses me strong with her hands. I’m heavy. Too heavy, with two eyes that see nothing, unless the dark hands of a man who touches the body of the fanciful middle-aged of a woman and I, the foolish, am waiting in the kitchen/waiting him to come and ask him on his works? And you, my darling mother, comb my childhood hair over there, and I don’t understand, why your color is gray.

I step in the ground, I can cope you in strength as usual. OK!!! Stand up and take your loneliness fan and let us know, how that dying bad -figured woman, with that black hairs and red chops took father with herself, and you, how, ate bread and patience every night and how did you laugh us every morning?

OK, stand up. Fix your head on your body. Take my eyes and sow them in your eye-sockets. Remember, paint blue flowers on your scarf, and buy Golab for yourself on your way to bazaar, and do not let me hear that your bones sound.

Come, and tell me that was a simple event .By the way, you were saying, “soil is cold”, Take some with yourself.

Short Stories