I heard my grandfather’s voice, on the other line. I imagined that he sat slumped in one of the living room’s many elegant chairs. His form, so undefined next to something of such sophistication, offered a hilarious juxtaposition that weaved a smile unto my lips. He then told me of you. You were visiting Shiraz along with your mother. I wondered, then, if your mind ever skips back to me. Do you walk past the marble columns that wear their cracks like silver veins, and imagine me, fingering the cold stone, struggling with a deep-rooted sadness, longing to see it go? Do you walk past the chicken coops, and hear the violent scratching of its many hens and roosters; do you smell their warm feces, the stale watermelon, and think of me, squatted on the floor, ankle-deep in mud, poking my fingers through the wire to provoke a short-tempered rooster from his half-sleep? Do you, while awaiting your lunch, imagine me scampering into the room, my cheeks matching the cherry-rice I offered to you? Do you ever run amongst the pebbles, get dust in your eyes, and think of how I nearly lost my sight, long, long ago? And how about the stray dog’s soft moans, do you think of my vain efforts to soothe his frightened cries? When I am alone, many years from now, with silvery hair that runs past my shoulders to reach my ankles, I will still think of you before that change took place. I will always think of you as I loved you: bright-eyed and curious, laughing through the day. Your dirty-knuckles and shameless grins always made my stomach ache.