Raha Behnam

Life is really just sadness, sadness. Tragedy exudes from my memories. Songs I hear echo the sadness I feel, see, remember.

Jon was one of my teacher’s at York University. He lead our seminar for my professional writing class. If I wasn’t so worn out by the daily trudges in knee-deep ice and snow colored black by time, maybe I would have stuck around.

In Vancouver, where I spent years eight through sixteen, I remember a Marine Drive lined with grocery stores, thrift shops and attempts at more upscale shopping needs. Oh, the sound of cars constantly swiping along roads wet with perpetual rain is cemented into my memory – kkssshhhhh…

Over and over again, as my fourteen-year-old self walks home from dance class, with her walkman in hand playing Alicia Keys’ “Songs in A Minor.” Probably wearing a light zip-up sweater, jeans over her pink dance tights, a black messenger bag over her shoulder with her ballet shoes in it.

I visit Austin to see family and call on an old friend, an old lover (truly I don’t know which). Searching for meaning, real love.

Why did we meet in the first place?

Why do you linger in my thoughts?

What am I to do about it?

Heat and blazing sun can make everything seem honey sweet. But they cannot ford the river of identity between me and him. Though it was a pleasant time, sadness ensues because my search has again lead me to a dead end. I wish for him to say the things that would give me closure.

“There is a profound reason why we met in the first place.”

“There is some kind of magic at work.”

“The things that happened were mistakes.”

But these words are not said in any iteration. I realize in his simple responses to my questions, my complexity forever separates me from him. There is nothing true between us. He is a plain row boat that cannot ford the raging river of identity. And I am a weeping willow planted in my resolve, only willing to reach my limp branches so far.

These days, I look at society and see only tragedy.

These days, the busy city terrifies me. My obligation to be there everyday for work is a heavy, heavy weight of questioning. iPhone manufacturing plants in Asia contain hundreds of underpaid, starving men and women. They are reduced to suicide. We live on the backs of their misery. Blissfully ignorant.

I feel sick to my stomach at the thought.

Can I even remember a time when my hand wasn’t poised over my phone constantly? How has this all happened so fast? How did all of this become so suddenly commonplace?

Right now, I seek refuge in a patch of grass and some larger-than-life trees. But we all know that time charges forward like a mad bull under our feet and before we even have the time to wonder what we are doing, we are caught in webs of necessity.

I was born in Iran. I have always had thick hair and eyebrows. We had a tiny turtle in our backyard. It would burrow into the garden and never be found. My mom’s singing rang through the house. My sister started speaking very late. My dad spoke gently, and put paints and paintbrushes in front of us.

I was terribly frightened of being left out and forgotten. Kids yelled and laughed outside while I was put to bed.

I went to Austin. My father’s sister whom I hadn’t seen for sixteen years said I hadn’t changed a bit.