There were tears in his eyes.
Actual human tears.
I had never seen my father cry before.
And due to some harmonic resonance, I started crying again too.
Dad scooted closer to me. And when I didn’t scoot away, he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me down to rest his chin on top of my head.
When had I gotten taller than Stephen Kellner?
“I’m so sorry, son. I love you so much.”
I let Dad hold me, like that tiny potato-sack version of myself, sleeping on his chest when I was a baby.
“You’re okay,” he murmured.
“No. I’m not.”
“I know.” He rubbed my back up and down. “It’s okay not to be okay.”
Dad and I stayed and watched the sun set, gilding the turquoise minarets of the Jameh Mosque for a few breathtaking moments before plunging Yazd into twilight.
Dad let me talk about Sohrab, and what he had said.
He let me be sad.
“You really love Sohrab. Huh?”
“He’s the best friend I ever had.”
Dad looked at me for a long moment. Like he knew there was more.
But he didn’t ask.
Instead, he pushed the hair off my forehead, kissed me there, and rested his chin on top of my head again.
Maybe he knew, without me saying it out loud, that I wasn’t ready to talk about more.
Maybe he did.
THROUGH A WORMHOLE
Sizdeh Bedar was pretty much cancelled.
Everyone was going over to the Rezaeis’ house. They packed the food Mamou had made for the picnic.
“Happy birthday, sweetie. Have fun with your dad,” Mom said, kissing my forehead before she grabbed a platter of dolmeh.
“Thanks.”
Mom rested her palm on my cheek.
I thought about her dealing with Dad’s depression for all these years.
I thought about her dealing with mine too, and how much harder it must be with two of us.
I thought about how painful it must have been, to want to help and not be able to.
