In my early years, my father and I were partners in crime. Every night I would wait for him on the stoop of our house in Isfahan, Iran. I would tease him by greeting the melons and sour cherries hidden in his coat before saying hello to him. We would sneak ice cream together, eating it with spatulas in the bedroom so my mother wouldn’t see. I walked barefoot on his aching back. I was always on his lap at dinner tables. I have his chin, his eyes, his smile that looks as if it belongs on a six-year-old’s face.
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Source: Cultures & Arts