Portrait Memories

Grandpa Bouyi’s lap was a place of comfort and affection, where the soft touch of his beard and the taste of tiny morsels created lasting memories. A painting in the parental house, though not of Bouyi, held sentimental value linked to love and attachment, now lost in the uncertainties of the past.

Ola joon, I remember, as a tiny tot, sitting on Bouyi’s lap in the dining room. He would feed me tiny morsels. I liked whatever he was he was feeding me, for I opened my mouth each time. He wore a reddish brown abayee which felt rough against my soft baby skin. His beard tickled me.

In my parental house in Tehran, there hung an oil painting of an old man with a beard. He had a rather stern look about him. He also wore a long cloak of a brownish shade. Although I knew it was not Bouyi, I pretended that it was. I was quite attached to that portrait.

During the revolution we packed in a hurry and filled up a container. I wanted to bring that painting along, but Papa was convinced we would return. He and my Uncle Albert had a three-story apartment building which they used for long-term businessmen to stay in. Papa furnished one of these apartments with what we had left behind. This portrait and another one that I was attached to, graced the walls of that apartment. We never returned. I don’t what happened to my parents’ house or that building or the two paintings. Does someone love and appreciate them as I do?