It was a cool autumn morning, with the heat finally retreated last week. The half moon was hanging in the blue sky amid the white clouds. I seated myself in the backyard, reading "Reading Loita in Tehran", a book found on my daughter's bookshelf. I don't remember buying her this book. Where did she get it? What is it about? When I leafed through the book one day, I was amazed by the beautifully written English. It was a memoir by an Iranian author who once taught English literature at the University of Tehran (originally I thought it was an English translation. The English is too good for a non -native.) I was still reading the first part, about one fifth of the book.
Next week is the Thanksgiving week, meaning I will be busy with the shopping, preparation and cooking, as the daughter is coming home. It would be a luxury then for me to sit idly and read quietly, basking in the morning sun and listening to the birds chirping by. Actually I have a lot to do today. After throwing bed sheets and quilt cover to the washing machine, I finished the page with an urgency, switching my mode quickly to a home-coming week, with anticipation and excitement.
Below is a paragraph of quote from the book:
"Imagine you are walking down a leafy path. It is early spring before sundown, around six p.m. The sun is receding, and you are walking alone, caressed by the breezy light of the late afternoon. Then, suddenly, you feel a large drop on your right arm. Is it raining? You look up. The sky is still deceptively sunny: only a handful of clouds linger here and there. Seconds later, another drop. Then, with the sun still perched in the sky, you are drenched in a shower of rain. This is how memories invade me, abruptly and unexpectedly: drenched, I am suddenly left alone again on the sunny path, with a memory of the rain."
