August 8, 2016
I left Iran nearly a decade ago. I left and moved to Australia—to the end of the earth—leaving much behind. And like all migrants, I miss the things I left behind: the taste of the air; the trees’ sweet smell; the song of the streets and of the crows at sunset; the show that the sunset puts on in summer against the backdrop of the grey polluted sky; the tall mountains that hang like a curtain behind the city’s outline. My memory clings to these things, and somehow, my distance increases their nearness to me—these things that are always for me both there and not.