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“You don’t know how it feels,” I said. Before today, he was the lovely Iranian doctor I’d chosen for the compassion in his eyes. Today, he was a monstrous man pontificating opaquely about things he would never experience. What was “normal”? That Nature traded in unnecessary pain? It wasn’t his intestines being set on fire, after all.
immaturity; he was a grown-up who could still touch in himself the wonder and innocence of childhood.
They were all positive. Something was growing inside me, alien, uninvited, and it felt like an infestation.
On the bus home, I cried, looking out the window at the cars and lights of a city that knew my loneliness.
It was my father who destroyed, and it was my mother I blamed for the ruins left behind.
I looked ahead and saw a future dead with the weight of his absence.
