Yasmin Rahmani
I miss Iran. My memories are dated some 15-odd years, but they always manage to creep up on me. Each has its own hidden trigger, buried deep within the dusty archives of my mind. I never know when or what will set it off.
Burning kerosene lamps. Mona Lisa’s smile. The black of asphalt. Salty, burnt corn. Water running in dirty streams.
Meaningless to you, but these are the momentary sparks. ...