Written by Keana Saberi
Graphic by Alyssa Lin
I. زن (Woman)
the day my grandmother passed we laid flowers
tulips and sombol flowers ornately placed across her still body
a silence stitched to the sky
then the sonatas of the birds returned to the juniper hues of her garden
paying homage to her with their lilting song
she’d tenderly attend to her garden
the flowers seemed to comprise her stature
in my mind, her shoulders carried chrysanthemums
her smile resembling the brilliance of lilies
when her hands began to wither
she could not tend to her garden anymore
we held her hands even tighter
with her grasp on life fraying
we took in every moment in her presence
the pain ever present as the unwelcome guest
no one had sought it to linger amongst us as we drank our tea
fear coating even our well disguised syllables
and even when she had left this mortal chaos, we held on
I kissed her forehead one last time
the warmth of her love still present
she had lived in this world with the companionship of flowers
and thus is how she left
she had asked for a celebration of life in place of a funeral
so her wake was populated with flowers of every distinguishable hue
carrying the same loveliness she possessed
in an instant I’d lost her — and though I had feared this day for so long
the perception of pain could not prepare me for the sorrow that struck my heart
but her laugh is contained in the poised petals of flowers
carrying a graceful but almost hidden resilience
her glance is imprinted in my dreams
I am comforted by that glance
but that it now only resides in my memories and photographs is my greatest heartache
that day, my mother and I cut our hair
taking the strands, placing them in the grasp of her hand
a sign of our devotion and admiration
one that transcends life and death
surpassing and redefining the notion of existence
we remember now how we cut our hair that day in March
reverent tears running down our cheeks
II. زندگی (Life)
six months after she passed, I got a haircut
sitting in the chair I recalled pockets of my childhood
my grandmother’s delicate hands poised
combing through my silky hair that would soon become steadfast curls
she would pin my hair slowly, and we’d talk about school
and whatever silly thing I fixated on then
before she’d cut my hair, she’d take out the bright pink hairbrush reserved just for me
I could have sworn that was her silhouette washing my hair that day
six months after I had held her hands in mine for the last time
there she was
reality and illusion casting away distinction
I remembered the characteristic way she peered with concentration down from her glasses
her hair cropped short and evenly melding gray and white
my eyes collapsed under the weight of tears and shampoo suds
blurred vision bringing tangibility
what catapulted me back to reality
my grandmother’s hands carried the wisdom of a wisteria tree
even in their last state of frailty
they maintained a tenderness in the cavernous jaws of pain
no matter how dearly I wished
those were not her hands
III. آزادی (Freedom)
in October
as the perennial heat of summer collapses
we watch as women cut their hair in protest in Iran
showing their solidarity with the movement for women’s autonomy
and those women and girls who lost their lives and livelihoods
at the horrid hands of the regime
for us,
cutting our hair was a sign of respect and love
for a woman whose bravery was illustrated in many ways
from fighting cancer
to advocating for women’s rights in Iran
43 years have passed since she stood in the streets
protesting just as they do now
we feel the possessing parallel as the women raise scissors to their locks of hair
the desire for freedom compelling them to rise up
and it’s as if somehow we knew then
that this act of grief and loss had a poetic reverberation
she, a woman so tethered to this integral act of protest
carries such a symbol of this resistance to injustice with her
both its physical and emotional manifestation
who knew how profoundly hair could resonant in my life
I notice how my curly hair curves and contorts into the aerospace around me
the ringlets are bold but distinctly unaware of their safety
why do I seek to condemn my curls when that was how she last saw me
how I pleat, manufacture ringlets when my own hair cries out to me
begging expression
now I inch further away from repression
this ideal I’ve clung unto
seeking the “desirable” silkiness and volume takes time
pull the strands raw to the marrow
douse with spray and serum
I now cherish the space they hold
they have no idea how fortunate they are to be uninhibited
the Iran that I carry in my heart is that in which my grandmother protested for justice
where my parents met and fell in love
where sabzi and saffron carried their pas de deux into the air
how it hurts my heart that cries and gunshots interfered that melody
where students carry bravery in their arms instead of backpacks now
fearing the continuation of the regime’s corruption more than anything
here I address a love letter to those young women and girls
whose intellect inspires
who stand strong as the police beat them, spirit and bone
casting their hijabs away even as they know they may be killed
for seven months, I have lived with her absence tethered to my every step
sadness seizing the light and dark unrelentingly
in those seven months
I have looked for even just a sliver of her characteristic serenity in the glances of strangers desperate to pretend she hasn’t left this earth
I have looked and seen her in the faces of the women I love and value in my life
my grandmother’s legacy can be seen in those women and young girls
her actions setting a foundation for the fervor of these protestors
I see her alongside me as I protest
her strength empowering my voice to carry on
even as pain pulls at every vocal cord
Comentarios