long lost nostalgia

It must have been a Friday because the sound of the afternoon prayer coming from the large speakers could be heard from anywhere in the city.

The arid weather of Tehran felt as though being stuck in a furnace. Then the distinct sound of every car horn coming from the chaotic road traffic; bone white Peykans moving as a flock of goats. The sound of the bazaar merchants selling counterfeit to costumers with their habitual exceedingly friendly tone.

The image of my late grandfather came to my mind, the old man who had lived and knew it all. His prophetic stature and old-fashioned manners were always a subject of ridicule during my youth: a senile pillar of ancient times. The only words I cared to remember were his last words before I left the homeland was: "It's not where you live that makes who you are but where you feel you belong in your heart."

I smiled as I figured that the old had had the last laugh finally as his words had hit home. I guess he always knew that whenever I would return the simplest things such as the sound of the laughter coming from the children playing soccer outside or the smell of late blooming lilies would chain me to this place like no other strong statement would.

I still remember...

The winds of change have since blown this city furiously with numerous regime changes and false hopes though the Damavand peak always stands as a giant against a sky as clear as sapphire...

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