Father’s Absence

I was in the third grade when I began to understand new things more deeply and think about them differently. It was then that I found myself feeling increasingly closer to my father. Sometimes, in the early evening, before he retired to his room, he would sit with me for a while, asking me questions. I would answer carefully, trying to be the son that he could be proud of, and the joy of those moments was so overwhelming that I could barely contain my excitement.

At times, I would laugh at myself, for being so nervous. It was as if I was standing before a teacher, answering questions. My words would get stuck in my throat, and my heart would flutter wildly, like a bird flapping its wings in a cage. My father understood this; he would place his hand on my head, gently stroking my hair, and give my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Through these gestures, he reminded me that he was my father and that he loved me. He wanted to ease my fears and calm my anxious heart.

With each passing day, my longing to see him grew stronger. After school, I could hardly sit still, eagerly waiting for his return in the evening. As I did my homework, I would sometimes see his kind smile in my mind’s eye. I would set down my pen, rest my chin on my hands, and drift into thoughts of him. It felt almost like dreaming, though my eyes were open; imagining conversations with him, the things I wanted to say but couldn’t when I stood before him, because the words would escape me, or because I simply couldn’t find the courage to speak.

For example, in my thoughts, I would tell him: ‘Father, I love you so much, but it’s hard to put into words. It’s like seeing the reflection of a star dancing in a bowl of water. If I move too close, or if my shadow or breath disturbs it, the reflection trembles and shatters. I wished you knew how much I love you.’

I would fill my thoughts with such strange musings, and every time I looked into his kind, dark eyes, it felt as if he could read my mind. As if he understood my every thought, though I could only hold his gaze for a fleeting moment before I had to look away.

Even now, I can still picture that unique look in his eyes—a depth I felt only I could see, though I never understood why. Once, when we went climbing together, and reached the summit of the mountain, where the city and its noise were far behind, I gazed up at the clear sky and saw, in his eyes, the same vastness, brightness, and strength; as if, through his eyes I could see the entire universe.

One afternoon, when I came home from school, I noticed that my mother’s eyes were red, as though she had been crying. When I greeted her, she kissed me and, smiling faintly, said, “Oh, these onions! I can’t peel one without tearing up.”

But I knew immediately that she had been crying. When she closed the door and said with that same smile, “Your father is in the living room,” I rushed to him, eager to see his eyes and to understand why my mother had shed tears.

As I greeted him, he smiled at me but then rose to his feet and said, “Farhad, I must leave right away. When I return from Isfahan, I’ll bring you one of those beautiful, ornate pen cases. For the next fifteen days, you are the man of the house. Be a good boy and take care of your mother and sister.”

He said more, but I stood there like a statue, unable to think, see or say anything. It felt as though I were dangling by one foot in the sky. When he placed his hand on my shoulder, I snapped out of it and blurted, “Father, father!”

I wanted to cry, but fear restrained me. It was as if my heart carried a sea of tears that I dared not release, fearing they might upset him. I put my schoolbag in the corner of the room and like my mother tried to force a smile. I asked, “Father, why are you going to Isfahan?”

He replied, “I’m going on an official trip for work. I’ll be gone for two weeks.”

My mother, her voice trembling, asked him to speak quietly so that my sister wouldn’t wake and start crying.

My father picked up his bag and left the room. My mother kissed him, and once again, her eyes filled with tears. We walked him to the door together. I stood by the wall, head lowered, unsure of what to do; whether to kiss him, smile, cry, scream, or grab his hand and beg him not to leave, ‘Father, father, don’t go! How will we manage without you? Life will lose its soul when you’re gone!’

The words formed in my mind, but I couldn’t say them out loud. I couldn’t make such a request. It was the first time he was leaving us for this length of time, the first time we would be deprived of seeing him, of hearing his voice, of feeling the warmth of his reassuring gaze. Now, I had to figure out how to bear this absence, how to endure it without letting it consume me.

As he was leaving, he told me, “Farhad, life brings new experiences every day. We must be ready for them, whether they’re good or bad.”

But I wasn’t prepared for this. I could accept everything else as normal, letting it pass without affecting me too much; except for his absence. The first thoughts that came to my mind after he left was that without my father, our home would be like a barren desert. That without him, my mother would feel like a lone canary with broken wings, trapped in a cage. That is why, I told myself, ‘Farhad, you are now alone, and you must endure it. But you must not let your mother and sister feel this loneliness as deeply as you do. Remember the words your father said to you.’

I walked into the living room with my mother. The place where he usually sat was now empty, and the warmth of his dark, bright, reassuring eyes was missing from that spot.

My little sister had woken up. I hugged her and asked if she had washed her face, so that we could play a new game.

That night, I finished my homework quickly, so that I would have more time to help my mother. At dinner, I had little appetite; forcing down each mouthful, as if I was eating stones. Sometimes I would glance at my mother and she also looked back at me. Our eyes would meet, exchanging smiles; feigned smiles, devoid of any joy.

Later that night, I was surprised that my sister Fereshteh, didn’t ask about our father before going to bed. At first, I was annoyed, but then, as I thought more about it, I felt ashamed of myself, realising that at her age, as a five-year-old, I had been just as unconcerned; perhaps even more so.

When she finally fell asleep, my mother and I sat together and talked. I had no desire to sleep. I wanted to spend all those fifteen days sitting in that room, talking with my mother, and waiting for my father’s return. That night, it felt as though life had suddenly shifted. It was a night unlike any other.

“Farhad, how much do you love your father?” my mother asked.

“As much as a son should love his father,” I replied. “And you, how much do you love him?”

She laughed and said, “As much as a mother should love the father of her son.”

We both laughed. I don’t remember when I finally fell asleep that night, but I’ll never forget the dream I had.

In my dream, my mother, my sister, and I stood on the shore of a vast sea, helplessly watching as four masked men led my father onto a distant ship. We all cried as the ship sailed away, growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared from sight. I woke up with a scream, as the sun was rising, and saw my mother, standing over me with her usual smile.

In the coming days we endured the pain of separation, and those fifteen days that had seemed endless at first, finally passed.

For my nine-year-old self, it was a lesson in resilience, teaching me how to face life’s challenges, even when they felt overwhelming. But when my father returned, I said to him, “Father, I don’t think I will ever learn to bear your absence.”

The End

London, 2010