بخشی از داستان بلندم به نام "امیر"
Amir
By:Hashem Hossaini, hh2kh@hotmail.com
This is a composition, as my lovely tutor assigned and a letter to my Angie the nicest pen pal in this global village, living in the US of A.
My dad, a truck driver is most of the time out on the mountain roads from Ahvaz in Southern Iran to two ancient cities: shiraz and Isfahan and the Saints’ capital of country: Tehran.
As he arrives home with no smile and hi, mom strives not to show her face around. He is a little taller and much heavier than his last month leaving to this homecoming.
Full of frowns and doubts, loudly he addresses the hall walls:
- Nobody to bring me a drop of water?
Mom prepares hurriedly the lemonade jug and insists me to greet this just arrived thirsty tired dad.
Perfumed…
Dews among the burnt wrinkles…
He is taking off the stinky socks. I cannot breathe the thick vapor of his sweating body.
- “Hi daddy!”
Approaching to kiss him and eager he may hug, but his club like arm rushes to the jug and grasps the cold handle.
No look. Thick eyebrows with unknown particles, wet.
Turning on the air conditioner, the living room, being shut for days with no guests in, gets gradually cool.
He drinks the lemonade in one gulp. He sighs.
I wish I could pat his grey moustache, but he is a barbed fence…
Looking interrogatively at me, finally he puts down the jug.
- “Daddy! Hope not tired…Are you hungry?”
- “Where is your mom?”
- “Kitchen…”
- “Did you go to school today?”
- “Holiday!” Smiling, I fix my scarf up and step closer.
“He is the last kid of a man whose job was to prepare a hookah for the tribe chieftain and always crossing the arms at his service, protect his charcoal brazier for his opium smokers at nights…” My granny once told me.
ه.ح....