Normally I could halfway follow their conversations, but with Mamou sounding like she was at the other end of a broken subspace relay, and my own sniffling, I missed some stuff.
Eventually there was a pause, and Mamou said, “Hi, Darioush-jan. How are you doing?”
“Hi, Mamou,” I said. I tried to smile for her, but my face probably just looked constipated. “I’m okay. How are you?”
“I am holding on,” she said.
Mamou blinked at me and wiped her eyes, and I did the same.
I wanted to tell her how sorry I was.
I wanted to tell her how much I missed her.
I wanted to tell her about the hole in my heart.
But I was helpless against her grief, and Mom’s grief, and my own.
I hated how powerless I was.
“I love you, Mamou,” I said. “I wish I was there.”
And I meant it so much.
But it didn’t feel like nearly enough.
Maybe nothing would ever be enough.
Maybe not.
Mom went back to bed after we said bye to Mamou.
I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. And then, when I couldn’t take the silence anymore, I called Sohrab.
Sometimes you just need to talk to your best friend.
But the call rang and rang. His icon pulsed on the screen.
Eventually, a little error message popped up.
I don’t know why, but the littleblipnoise is what got to me.
My grandfather was gone.
I curled back up in my bed and wound my blankets around myself like a burrito and cried into my pillow until I finally fell asleep.
At some point, Mom must’ve called into school for me, because when she knocked on my door around noon, all she asked was if I needed anything.
“I’m okay,” I said.
And then I said, “We have a game tonight.”
“I talked to your coach. She knows you’ll be gone.”
“Okay.”
Eventually, I got that feeling in my legs, like they were full of springs, and I knew I had to get out of bed.
I went with Oma to the grocery store that afternoon. When we got back, I sat in the living room with Laleh while she read.
