New Year

I am travelling from England to homeland to stare at my mother’s vanishing point into the new year, as far back as I remember I was always late for everything this December, her new knitted coat I bought from M & S arrived after her death, she knitted a lot when I was a child, sometimes I thought she replicated herself—or created me?— in her lace, sometimes you could trace how insecure fingers invaded the stitches weaving in and out, holes escaped her detached eyes and out of the long cold nights her creation conjured like a blank paper chewed by a sly mouse lurking in the corner of the house, didn’t she hear silent cries, or they were beyond her imagination? I look down at the world beneath me, in a dark ocean the remains of a drowned childhood still hope to be rescued, I miss the chance to open the seatbelt, meal is abandoned, red lipstick smiles: ‘Coffee madam?’ I land in Iran, Tehran, hometown to let memories claim their own lives and unravel the ties I am deeply hurt by It’s new year and I am too late to get over an unconditional love.

Shirin Teifouri