One Day in October
It was a Friday morning, late in the month of October, in the city of Tehran. Fridays are days of rest in Muslim countries, their Sabbath. My mother and my sisters were still fast asleep. The servants also rested since there was no need to prepare an early breakfast, as it was a day of rest and Papa did not go to the office. The day before we had celebrated my birthday, so they were definitely tired. The house was silent except for the radio softly playing classical music in the family room. Papa, seated in a deep, cushiony armchair, was concentrating on a crossword puzzle in the newspaper. A pencil was balanced behind his ear as he pensively sucked on his Meerschaum pipe and considered the puzzle. I was sitting on the floor playing with some new paper dolls I had received the day before from one of my friends on the occasion of my birthday. It was either my sixth or seventh birthday. My parents had invited friends and family and some of my classmates. The staff and my mother had been quite busy preparing for the event!
That morning, I remember, I was wearing a favorite pink and white hand-knit angora top that softly brushed against my face in the most pleasant way. It was matched with a soft charcoal grey skirt. I loved that top. Since the morning was cool, the potbellied stove had been lit early in the day and the room was warm and comfortable. There was a sense of quiet peacefulness in the room. I could hear Papa steadfastly sucking on his pipe as he concentrated on the puzzle in the papers. A sharpened pencil was stuck between his ear and his head. Each time he solved a word, he’d remove the pencil from behind his ear and scribble a word with a grunt of pleasure. He must have got stuck on a word, for he suddenly raised his head and said, “Come on Stella, let’s go for a walk.”
Eagerly, I got up and put on a cardigan, held on to my Papa’s hand as we quietly left the house. We walked up our street and turned into Khiaban Pahlavi. The day was mildly cool and breezy. The tall, majestic plane trees that towered over the wide avenue were calmly shedding their leaves. The leaves lazily floated through the autumn skies and landed to softly cushion the ground below. They rustled softly as they landed on the ground. Somewhere, not too far away, someone was burning leaves in big, heavy metal drums. I loved that aroma. Its somewhat damp, smoky scent gave me such a pleasant, heady feeling of comfort. It signified that summer had definitely come to an end and the start of the cold seasons were upon us. Each autumn, heavy metal drums appeared on every street corner. They were filled with dried leaves, burnt, and the ashes were discarded. I loved the change of the seasons. No, I take that back. The change of seasons truly thrilled me. I was too young to be blasé about the magical change of the seasons. In some ways, I don’t think I ever stopped being in awe of those changes, even now that I shall enter my eighth decade in a year’s time. I think back and am amazed at how quickly time has flown by. How have I gone from being that six or seven-year-old to the old lady I am now, although my mind tries to deny it. I have had a rich, full, and fulfilled life. Still, life had zoomed by. Sometimes I think, “Stop! Stop! There are still more things I want to do.” But I have slowed down. My body has slowed down. It is full of aches and pains. In the beginning, I was surprised at my reaction to my body! Where had the person I used to be disappeared to? But I am reconciled to the fact that this is who I am now. After all, life never stands still. There always is change.
As we walked up the avenue, I surreptitiously pushed the sleeve of my right arm up, for I was now the proud owner of my very first watch! For my birthday, my parents had presented me with a Borel-Fils watch! It had a golden tan face and Roman numerals on the face and tan leather straps! I wanted passersby to notice my new acquisition! For weeks prior to my birthday, my parents tirelessly insisted on teaching me to read Roman numerals. Now I knew why.
Papa looked down at my exposed arm and smiled. “Do you want everyone to admire your new watch?” he asked.
I wish I could have said, “Yes, Papa! I am very proud of it. Thank you.”
Instead, on that cool and slightly windy late October morning, a lifetime ago, I replied, “No Papa, my arm feels quite hot this morning.”
I am sure Papa had an amused grin upon his face at my comment and he chuckled with amusement. I can imagine him reading this over my shoulders even now and guffawing. “What an imagination you have, my Sarah Bernhardt!” he murmurs as he used to do then.