Wedding Song by Farideh Goldin

walk to my aunt’s house. Her door was ajar and a long security chain held it together, which Mohtaram reached to unlock. The chain didn’t provide security. My cousin noticed my perplexity.
    “I have no choice but to lock her in. She walks out, gets confused, and goes to other people’s apartments. I come and check on her every day. I bring her food. Sometimes I take her to my place for lunch. Two nights a week, I sleep here. The others come and visit every Wednesday. She is lonely, I know, but what can I do? In Iran, family was always around. Here, we struggle. Who knew this would be our fate, living in
ghorbat
, away from home in our old age.”
    Frustrated with the chain, I helped her open the door. An old woman stood bent over next to a sofa covered with a beige fabric to keep it clean.
    “It’s burning.” She pushed on her lower abdomen. “It hurts.”
    “It’s okay,” Mohtaram reassured her. “Your acid is high. I have been trying to get hold of your doctor. This is Rouhi’s daughter. She has come a long way to see you.”
    Aziza looked at me from underneath her thick glasses, and I didn’t know how to react. Then she burst out into a deep cry, reaching with both hands for me. I took a big step and held her tight, crying myself. She smelled old and medicinal. Her grasp was tight and her bony hands didn’t let go of me for a long time. Her shriveled frame was hidden in my embrace, her head rested on my chest, and I felt the wetness of her tears through my dress mixing with my own perspiration in the hot room. I caressed her disheveled hair, white and coarse, sweaty from the exertion of her slightest moves. My tears fell on her scalp, which showed through the thin silver fuzz. I bent over and kissed her on both cheeks, and she kissed me back. Her face rubbed against mine, wet and soft, and tickled me with a few old-age hairs growing on her chin.
    Between the sobs she repeated, “I can’t believe I am seeing Rouhi’s daughter. I can’t believe.” Her accent was unfamiliar.
    “Sit down Aziza
khanom
,” I told her, not sure of what to call her, notdaring to call her
khaleh
. An aunt is more than a physical being; she is a relationship, but I was seeing mine for the very first time at age forty-five, when she was ninety years old and forgetful. She sat on the edge of the sofa with her hands folded on her lap. Her bare feet on the carpet, the toe-nails thick, yellow, and cracked, piggybacked on each other like a row of fallen dominos.
    “I have some pictures for you,” I told Aziza as I sat next to her. I showed her my daughters’ pictures, and she sobbed some more. I gave her pictures of my mother, grandmother, and grandfather. She was confused.
    Mohtaram explained it to her again. “This is a picture of Touran, Rouhi’s mother.”
    “Is Touran here?”
    “No,” I said, “in the picture.” I didn’t tell her that my grandmother had been dead for a long time. I pulled out old pictures of my maternal grandmother holding my youngest uncle at the time, with my twelve-year-old mother standing next to her. As I expected, she recognized them; they were frozen in time, as she had last seen them. Then I showed her a recent picture and told her that this was my mother today. The light came back in Aziza’s eyes.
    “This is Rouhi? O my God, Rouhi.” She sobbed again, touching my mother’s face in the picture. I showed her my grandfather’s picture.
    “Agha has not changed at all! I dreamed of him last night. He was here visiting me. I have not seen him in a long time.”
    I didn’t know how to handle the situation.
    “Agha is dead,” Mohtaram said. She was used to reminding her mother of the past events that Aziza forgot constantly.
    Maybe she should let it be, I thought, as I saw Aziza mourning her father again, her chest heaving.
    “Mother, don’t cry. Remember, this world is for nothing,” Mohtaram said. “It isn’t worth upsetting yourself so much.”
    It was time to leave. Both Aziza