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;