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 The death of an Iranian doctor By Homeira Adibzadeh December 17, 2002 The Iranian his last few days a hollowed 90 pounds, disslolved by cancer in that room, in a townhouse in San Diego, far from the "khak" of the land he loved so much in that room, with the Persian rug, he hauled over continents and oceans to give me seeing ghosts, he gets up weeping, kissing the Qu'ran, he beats his forhead against it and asks what he has done wrong my mother softly replies "nothing 'Doctorjoon', you have done nothing wrong. go back to sleep." he sinks back down on the bed the pillow, a large white raft, holding up his small ancient head my sister and I like two shrinking balloons remnants of an old birthday party attached by a thin string float helplessly toward the ceiling.
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