Eulogy
My mother was always in motion, her favorite word was “berim”=let’s go”! I used to call her “perpetual motion machine”. When I was growing up, it was not unusual to wake up and see that she had already walked 3 miles to buy Halim for breakfast! Neither was it unusual to come home and see the house totally re-decorated from top to bottom! At nursing home in the last year of her life, their only complaint was that it is hard to keep her in one area: she was all over the place, even we she had to propel herself in a wheel chair. I always had to look for her. On the last day of her life, she asked me to take her out of bed and the room and to the patio. She was already very weak and could hardly open her eyes, but was restless. When she felt the breeze, she calmed down, smiled and fell sleep. This was perhaps her last conscious moment. Today finally she is at rest, at least her body is. Her soul, I am sure, is already moving about, going places, seeing things, doing things.
My mother loved flowers, birds, and children. She grow flowers most of her life, my father used to call our house “green house” because she would fill all the rooms with pots of greens. She used to have parakeets and canaries until she had to give them up in the fear of passing some unknown germ to my sister. She had a soft spot for all children; hers and others. If she saw an unattended child in the street, she would invariably stop and look for the mother. Once she stopped a total stranger’s hand in the air as the other woman was beating her child in a supermarket in Tehran. She made little doll dresses for all kids in the family, and it was not unusual to wake up after Norouz holiday and find out your school assignment, neglected for 2 weeks, has already been miraculously done in her meticulous handwriting!
She had a “gifted hand”, a magical way with beading, embroidery, painting, knitting. She never did a formal pattern, the pattern was in her head. She just sewed and changed, and it would come out astonishing. We were always begging her to add something to our shirts. She couldn’t stand blank clothing, she would sew a flower, knit a bird, or add some other beautiful pattern, even to underwear! Weeks after she almost died in a car accident, she created a masterpiece on my wedding dress: transforming a simple dress to one worthy of a princess. The dress, Halas, is lost, but pictures remain. When she had her fashion business in Tehran, she would adapt the latest Paris fashions for Iranian woman. Her creations were nothing short of amazing. When she gave up the business to comply with my father’s wishes, I remember women literally begging her to reconsider: “But Mahin you make us look so good!”, was the usual refrain. I know it was painful for her not to be able to manipulate the spoon to feed herself at the end. She never stopped trying though.
She loved music, she taught herself to play organ, and would play our piano. Even when she could not remember who my husband of 25 years with whom she had lived for 15, was she still remembered some of the old Persian songs and played them until her fingers stopped responding to the music in her head. In the house, she loved to sit on the stairs and listen to me or kids play, She would clapp at the end of each piece from upstairs!
She loved people, she was always making friends, giving parties, giving gifts even when she could hardly afford it. She never waited for people to ask her for her help or something, she would offer it, generously.
My mother was not much for sleep, a few hours here and there would do. She always said “you know we will be sleeping for a very long time”, Rest in peace mom!

Soul Sisters

Yesterday my mother was alert, she ate, she wanted to get out of the room, we even called my uncles to talk to her. Her speech is blurred, but somewhat intelligible. Even the nurse from Hospice was surprised. Today, it is a totally different story: she is laying there sleeping. I tried to wake her to no avail. I fed her an Ice cream, I told her this is a raspberry Ice Cream from Sar-e.Tajrish. She has no energy. I told her we need to take the bus to Vanak, but mostly, I talked and I am not too sure if she heard. I don’t know what we get tomorrow, may be nothing. May be there is no tomorrow for Mahin. I kiss her forhead, I hold her hand, I am hoping she can feel that. She is in peace, though, no sign of pain or discomfort.
Yesterday when I was leaving another lady, my age, with a mother at Nursing home, was telling me that it was a good day for her mother, “when they are at this age”, she said, “you never know what you get when you arrive here”. I nodded, do’t I know it! She them said: “we are soul sisters”, sould sisters indeed.

Every Minute Counts

My mother is dying! it is a medical fact. She is slipping away, a little every hour, every minute. A day is an eternity. She is not eating, not drinking. Her body is rejecting IV. She is not in pain, she floats in and out of consciousness, at least her consciousness, rich with ghosts and hallucinations, some frightening, some not. I read her Persian poems. I am tired of asking her, begging her to eat, Her speech is forced and tired, I have nothing to say, so I read. Sometimes I sing her Persian lullabies. But mostly I read her poetry. It is the familiar rhythm of the language that is comforting: to both of us.

Yesterday, it was Siavash Kasraii’s Arash Kamangir, today it will be Forogh Farokhzad. I doubt she will outlive my small collection of poems, but if she does, I will start again. I doubt she will remember, or if she does, I know she wouldn’t object. This is my last gift to her. I cannot take her to Iran, but it is my way of bringing Iran to her. The language, the poems, the imaginary. The smell of dirt and rain, the height and majesty of Alborz, the intimacy of small pond with gold fish. They say it so much better than I do.
The poems are full of love and death, of happiness and bitterness. It reminds me that in our culture, everything is bitter sweet. Even my mother’s death. It is calm, it is the end of a deadful disease whi has rubbed her of what is most precious: her memories.
She nods to my showing her the flower pot on the porch. She can no longer smell, so all is left is the description of Jasmine, like the one my grandmother used to put on the breakfast table everyday, in a poem. The language is melodic and beautiful. They bring her the flowers, the sky, the rain, the snow, the sea. So, let the poems be the last thing she will hear, let it bring some glimmer of love, light, and smell to her. This is my last gift, let it last;