(Displaying the date of its first publication at the end, like a diary, this letter is not just a letter.)
Son, I hope you are warm under the blanket of my imagination, and that you sleep well enough to raise a sunrise not far from my expectations. I plan your actualization, your coming into real life. Merits I will earn when your lungs breathe in oxygen. You would exhale carbon dioxide and add to the current dilemma over greenhouse gas emissions, like all children do, but still you can plant two trees a year in return and then leave them to the guardianship of infrequent rainfall in this country, raindrops that might rarely fall from clouds in reality.
Son, I want you to become real enough for the good of your own kind, and to do with life for the better of your own self. I owe you an apology since nobody is treasuring you in a womb as yet. Your mere existence is warm in my imagination, and it goes on to be until the day you realize reality by your birth. I want to help you with that, you see, but I am only half of the story. Another half is needed to conclude this quest.
Son, this real life I speak of rules that your actualization needs two people. I am one, and your mother would be the other. I am here, but your mother isn’t because the girls whom at least I know are merry, proud and respectful individuals. Your mother is one of them although she is missing here for the same reason you sleep under the blanket of my imagination. So far, nobody has supported my incentives that would help you come into real life. Were your mother beside me, we would be telling you this story together. We would hug your reality so tightly to place you in the zero distance between us. Be advised in peace, my son. No distance is what signifies a world of actuality.
Son, your mother could have been someone in the classes I study. I met her in the corridor two weeks ago. That afternoon, she and I walked past each other, and I said hello. But she insisted on saying goodbye in return because the day was coming to an end. She should have known some goodbyes are always untimely, that for some beginnings I see no ending – the maturity of wanting no goodbyes after great greetings. No goodbyes because she always seems new to me, like the very first day I saw her and said hello. Having that covered, she always stands on cold ground, resolute in icy confidence. She cannot comprehend an air of warmth beyond straightforward logic, like the many others who struggle against a charitable heart outside their own selves.
Son, say hello to the world of reality, to the lubricants and butters of bitterness among success, and to a cornucopia of spicy sweetness in spite of frequent failures. It is a paradox we must solve too often, much too often. Therefore please be advised beforehand. Though entertaining, it can be a rewarding challenge for the brightness on intended bravery, and be more than fun because hope is reborn when we acknowledge others with humane colors. It is up to them to understand, while you and I serve on this mission like the greatest of generals.
This painting of reality gets tinged with insight when some others don’t cooperate with the contrast of your colors that make you the one you admire to be. But you, my son, can maintain your own unique shades by taking photographs of your hand- and footprints on snow, no matter how cold it gets, because the snow will melt one day and your prints will evaporate with it to make clouds of little rainfall. Then you’d wish you had taken the photographs. Everything can be a hobby when you're not forced to do it, and everything can be entertaining when you're not compelled but impelled to deal with it.
You can still arrive to know what fulfillment means to any one person, and then venture into communicating with others and spend time with people who share common interests with you, like listening to songs by Taylor Alison Swift, for example. Or manage social bonds that go fragile at times; tend them at times, play football sometimes. You could ask others for their understanding, and find the craziest individuals you match in among the 7 billion hearts pounding on Earth. Or try campaigning to raise awareness or action, and make strong rubies from the red blood shared by your fellow countrymen.
How pleased I would be if you produce a new color by self-esteem and develop a voice when I trust there can always be another heart to grasp your ambitions! You’ll just have to find the bests that fit your place best, even though we often make mistakes in the choices we make. It’s mainly about making, you see, it’s a reality worth realizing.
There are hardships that taste more than a rainbow, some crispier, others sweeter than others, but an ultimate fulfillment is central to my attention, and that makes me take a firm line on your coming into real life. You will have a real blanket to sleep beneath, something warmer than my imagination. It will be made of soft cotton manufactured by hard work. It will be an honourable story to live up to. A start, before you challenge the idea. I have told the like to the many. On white canvas we call it life in shades, and I’m sure you can hold the paintbrush firmly, enough to paint a picture on your inside, your best side, that pride parents honour.
Mohsen H. Darabi
February 16, 2016