Iran after South Korea (2008-2011)

Storms encroached on the blanket covers beneath my nostrils tucked inwards for warmth and serenity. The night is morning, or at least a deceitful phase. Rain waters slap my windows to keep me as a witness to this remarkable night that is blissfully threatening. My mother walks in the door.

“Your father is on a plane back to us. The storm will sway the wings. We should pray for him so that he lands safely. God listens – especially to a child’s prayers. Come by my side and pray.” My knees find their way to the floor, cushioned by calloused habit. My mother is forming comprehensible words and I a few. I am feeling silly in this act, when a thunder jumps my heart. Dread floods in. My fingers interlock in a tighter grip against my pulsating veins and whitening knuckles. I awake to the rustles of my father going about his usual routine. I fall into slumber as he leaves for the day once again.