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Once upon a dream
All that remains is the memories

Arash Sayedi
February 21, 2005

The sound of my friends' laughter. The warmth of my grandmother's touch; the smell of her scarf. The sour taste of Masht Hassan's lavashaks. Playing with marbles in the dirt. Street soccer. Fighting with my neighbour's kid; beating that fat kid up real good and then getting beat up by his brother. Pushing a tire down the road with a stick. Ringing door bells late at night and running like a bat out of hell. Noon Barbary. Smell of naphtha on Charshanbeh Soory. The stomach aches after about half a kilo of Masht Hassan's lavashaks. The smell of pencil and rubber on the first day of school. Bar pa. Bar ja. That scary looking school principal that later turned out to be a loving father. The pain of my math teacher's ruler landing on the back of my hand; call me screwed up but I miss even that.

Today these memories are so distant they seem like somebody else's. Moments trapped in the eternity of time. They belong to a world I seem to have known in another life. It has been so very very long they almost don't seem real. Have I dreamt them or are they really the fragments of my shattered past that make me who I am? Am I the sum total of my memories or am I something more?

Well no use brooding now. Those days are gone forever. All that remains is the memories. Those are my treasures. Proof of the absolute bliss I once knew. Proof that I was once a kid. Proof that the hard shell that now types these words was once careless and free.

I can't help wonder though; should I ever have any children of my own, would they ever know these joys? Being on that great land and smelling it's air? Experiencing the simple pleasure of sitting in a 'toot' tree and eating away until your whole face is red and your stomach swollen? Or folding a piece of hard plastic and running around the street making clicking sounds that for some reason seem infinitely entertaining when you're a kid? Will they experience the pleasure of getting together with cousins and aunts and uncles, exchanging kisses, giving and receiving eydi? Will they get to smell the Jasmines on the corner of grandmother's old yard? Will I?

Maybe, maybe not. From my past I have my fondest memories. And into my future I carry my dreams. And the rest? Well the rest is up to fate.

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Arash Sayedi



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