I was thinking of how you are like a lifetime

(to the shams tabrizi who brought forth the rumi in me)

I was thinking of how you are like a lifetime.
Or a letter that I have written in my head but never sent.
I was thinking of how easily we take one another for granted
and are so quick to throw one another aside for what we say
is “more real yet” and what we are really looking for.
I was thinking about how we convince ourselves without even trying that
what we have is only temporary at best.
That you were there to make me happy again
and I was there to help you learn something you did not yet know how to do.
But really that is not it at all.

You were there to laugh when we ate too much at Mandarin
and I was there to hear you sing to me.
You were there to tell me to write
and I was there to tell you you were smarter than you knew.
You were there to show me that men could be easy and open
and I was there to show you that women could be trusted.
But really that is not it at all.

You were there to kiss me when I did not feel good
and I was there to change your sheets when you were burning up from fevers.
You were there to laugh at my qorboonet beram of the Iranian farmer
asking the insects to bother someone else’s crops
And I was there to laugh at the way you do all the voices and gestures
of interesting characters you’ve met.
But really that is not it at all.

You were there to awaken me from slumber and show me the sunshine.
And I was there to reflect the light back to you in your little home
with the open windows
and black chair in front of the webcam that introduced me to you.
But I do not know if that is what it is at all.
Because I have not lived this life yet
and I do not know its end
and I am only guessing about all of this.

But I think of you as a lifetime
unfolding out before us, waiting for time to take its toll.
The lines on your face growing deeper like your father’s.
Your brothers and sisters getting old.
Your body softening from disuse, boxing gloves grown dusty, a head bald but no longer shaved.
My face growing softer with wrinkles, my hair now turned white,
my hands those of an old woman.

And I think of you as a turning away
into the road you are looking for, reading the signs that you think are meant for you.
A different face, an intact womb, breasts that have yet to give milk
And I hear you laugh when you are called Baba and I see you
open the door to Home.
And I do not know if this is really it at all

But I push you towards the signs and the road
With tears stinging my smiling eyes
making trails down to my lopsided grin
so I wipe them away and say GO.
While holding your spirit close and
whispering my goodbye.

I was thinking of how you are a lifetime.
A letter halfway written
whose end is yet unknown.