Abecedarian for Three Generations on Nowruz

Apple/seeb were never the same. Even
before their trees were rooted in different
countries. As a family, we tried to decide that this
didn’t matter. The apple leans against the fishbowl,
even here in my American home, which could be filled with
Farsi speakers. It shouldn’t matter that the Bibis and Babas have become
ghosts in festival markets. Their lips clear as serkeh. Always wanting young
hands to nurture Nowruz. They forget we don’t know how. That

I only know Tehran from faded photos. They teach me by

juxtaposing here to there. I listen to repetitive legends: my mom experienced Nowruz alone.

Killed seven bulbs of seer. She went back to her mother’s table. I understand this
limitation. It is one thing to foster seeds of a culture in the belly of
matriarchs. Another to reroot them in a child’s Western throat.
Nothing has seemed to take. I cannot stomach the taste of senjed. Still, I
open wide. My Nina’s fingers have a new skin of samanu. One by one, she
plants grains of sabzeh on my tongue. I never can make them grow. Mouth opens. Closes.

Quiet. This is not a replacement for speaking Farsi. Every year I call
relatives. I stumble over, “Nowruz Mobarak.” This is all I say. Mispronunciations abound in
soft tones. Later, my mom paints Khanoom Khorshid on eggs,
then forgets to teach me kh sounds. I buy more goldfish.
Uncultured. My Nina feeds them grains of somagh. They search in
vain for the seven sounds of seen. Each generation finds new ways to speak
words. Our tongues are different. I am a cultural

Xerox. My Farsi diluted until it is gone. My mouth
yearns for sound. Knows silence even better. Fins, lips. Open, close. The
zendeghi of Nowruz shouldn’t be left to my voice.