Her cheeks are hot, damp with tears.
I look into her eyes,
and make the only promise that will ever matter.
“Elise, I will come back to you.”
Close your eyes. Fall in love. Stay there.
—Rumi
elise
My senior year passes with surprising speed.
Somewhere between my part-time job at The Hamlet, work on my photography portfolio, and monthly trips to Sacramento to visit my brother, I get to know the girl I spent the summer becoming.
In September, I join Cypress Valley High’s yearbook staff. Quickly, I become a lead photographer. I make friends. Maybe not forever friends, but I think that’s okay. I find myself laughing again, and anticipating school days with something not unlike enthusiasm. I log countless hours on the phone with Ryan, and video chat with Mati every chance I get. Luckily, connectivity in Kabul is decent.
In November, Audrey and I sign up for a painting class. We’re the youngest students by decades. She thinks it’s lame, but I become kind of obsessed. I cover canvases with smears of paint: of my dog, San Francisco’s skyline, Cypress Beach’s horizon.
I still love photography best.
I spend the early months of winter hanging out with Bambi, meeting up with Xavier for milkshakes, and baking cookies with Janie. Ryancomes to visit at Christmastime, bunking at his gram’s, so I get to spend tons of time with him. Mati and I continue to email daily—hourly, sometimes. I send him snapshots of our beach, our park, any dandelion I happen upon. He sends me poems about nothing, and poems about everything.
In January, after a painting class I attend on my own (because Audrey gave up brushes and acrylics weeks ago), I treat myself to a slice of pie at The Hamlet. I have a table to myself, only my thoughts for company, and it feels good, being alone but not lonely; it’s a sense of peace, a strengthening of character thanks to new people and new experiences.
I realize I like this girl I’ve become. I think my brother would, too.
It’s there at that table, halfway through my wedge of cherry pie, that I make myself a promise: I will continue to funnel energy into myself, but I will try to reestablish a relationship with my mom, too. It will have to be a new relationship—adifferentrelationship—because while her opinions regarding Afghans and Muslims andMatihaven’t changed, I think it’s possible to love her despite her prejudices.
On a chilly Saturday morning in February, as I’m getting ready to drive to Sacramento to see Nick, she walks into my room. “I’d like to come along,” she says, voice quavering.
I turn away from my mirror to face her. She’s dressed in a pair of khakis and a cable-knit sweater, and she’s holding two travel mugs. “I’d like that,” I tell her. “Nicky would, too.”
She drives, slow and cautious. Halfway to the cemetery, she broaches the topic that’s been tabled since August: Mati. “You’re still in contact with him?”
“Every day.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know, Mom. Hopefully, I’ll see him again—we’re working on it.”
“It’s not good for you, pining for that boy.”
“I’m not pining for him—I’m carrying on. I’m staying busy. I’mmaking a life for myself. But I love him, and nothing you say will change that.”
“I wish you’d never met him,” she murmurs, almost to herself.
I pat her arm, sorry for her obstinacy, and sad about the good she misses because of it. But my sympathy only stretches so far, and my voice is ironclad when I tell her, “I’m so glad I did.”
This is what I’ve learned: While my mom might continue to dig her heels in regarding Mati, his culture, and his religion, I don’t have to stop modeling acceptance. I don’t have to stop believing that someday, she’ll come around.
In March, Xavier moves to San Antonio. He’s been stationed at Lackland Air Force Base, less than three hours from Texas A&M. I’m bummed to see him go but thrilled for him and Ryan. I use my surplus of free time to do more reading on Islam. I learn about its doctrine and its customs. I come to appreciate its history and its values.
In April, I find out that I’ve been accepted into the San Francisco Art Institute. Mom cries, and I do, too. I’m happy—so, so happy—but I’m going to miss Cypress Beach. I start to spend more time on the sand, more time on the quiet sidewalks, more time in the overpriced boutiques. I soak it up, this town I thought I’d hate.
In June, I graduate from Cypress Valley High. I ask my manager at The Hamlet to up my hours. I squirrel away every cent I earn. Living in San Francisco is costly, and even though my mom has agreed to help me with rent (I found a furnished studio apartment in a safe neighborhood, close to campus), there will be plenty of other expenses.
