Bouyi
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 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 know what happened to my parents’ house or that building or the two paintings. Does someone love and appreciate them as I do?