Canvas of Time

I remember the stories of my grandmother and those of the other women in my family and neighbourhood. They would gather on quiet afternoons to exchange information and share their intentions, thoughts, and desires. While playing with my cousins and siblings in the courtyard, I occasionally listened with curiosity to the women's tales beyond our jokes and mischief. Each story connected me to a world of simplicity.

The truth is that I relished listening to their tales, rich with the water and fire of life. Every story, laugh, conversation, and misunderstanding—like light, swallows, spring, and the streams of the Four Seasons—were imbued with purity, and their discussions did not mar the pristine canvas of time.

For countless reasons, those stories instantly connected me to my inherent decency and connected my tender, childish heart, like birds, to the free world. Those same stories, friendships, and pastimes illuminated the meaning of life through my emotions.

I consciously embraced the near and far simplicities without knowing whether life pursued a specific goal. I perceived life as devoid of pain, anger, hatred, and resentment. I believed the entire world could be encapsulated in those stories: companionship with others, childish games, and fresh air. I gazed at a mysterious village with inner warmth and regarded the earth as a paradise. Those days and tales of the past are the most cherished fragments that nourish my memories and inner self, which, more seasoned than most, takes pride in its simple and meaningful history.

However, for a long time, I have been unable to find joy, happiness, or positive thoughts when hearing stories; in my view, today's tales represent endless and repetitive pain. Often, I struggle to uncover deep meaning and value in contemporary conversations. Over the years, amidst discussions, I have not encountered such emotional and behavioural traits within fleeting and unstable friendships. Today's stories seem similar and lack the familiar resonance and essence of friendships that have evolved alongside these actions and behaviours.

For these few decisive and clear reasons, I have refrained from listening to stories for quite some time. Instead, I rely on the shadows of my memories. I envision myself in childhood and infancy. I fondly recall the stories and friendships of yesteryear when women from the Chahardehi tribe gathered quietly and shared tales in the courtyard, sometimes from behind tall walls.

I cherish those memories deeply, longing to hear the profound voice of existence once more and to connect my heart and soul to a past that feels purer than today.

Shahla Latifi
February 2025