A Mother’s Words for Nastaran
Nastaran, my life, my soul, my child. Winter hasn’t even settled in yet, but here in your city, spring has already come. Chabahar, a city that is itself four springs, what good are its springs now that you’re gone?
The air is filled with the fragrance of jasmine. The scent of life flows everywhere. Do you remember those tall acacia trees? They have turned the most heavenly shade of green. But amidst all this splendor of creation, your footsteps can no longer be heard. I remember how you’d secretly pick geraniums, tuck them in your hair, and spin around in the wind, letting yourself go, until it felt like the whole world was laughing with you. Here I am, sitting under the drainpipe, my lap still carrying the scent of your tousled hair.
My moonlit little girl, my Nastaran. How I miss running my fingers through your silken hair. My heart aches for you. My sweet, gentle Nastaran, for what sin did they take your life? You hadn’t even reached the Taklif celebration that you so eagerly awaited. You wanted us to take you to the shrine of Imam Reza in our hometown to celebrate your ninth birthday. Your friends and teachers have shed so many tears in your absence. They feel your absence with all their being.
Since you left, the sky of my life has remained forever overcast. If only a voice from the unseen could come and soothe my aching heart, telling me: “Grieve not, suffering mother, you will finally see your beloved child again.”
My dear one, my precious daughter, that day of Tasu’a—which will never fade from history—left us with a grief that will never heal. The grief of your departure, of your flight to the heavens.
My God, how did those shrapnel pieces pierce your fragile little body? Why didn’t they come to me instead? If only I could call your name by the pond once more, and you would come running with wet hands, the folds of your skirt blossoming like flower petals, and find peace in my arms.
What more could I possibly want from life?