Having a keen eye for real estate and working on a timeline of no more than two months, Mama was scrupulous and swift when choosing the right house. After a hard and footsore morning of self-guided showings, it was on Oakridge Drive where she found just the thing: a midcentury split level, set back from the road and nestled into a hillside, trimmed with wrought iron details and a bedroom balcony that overlooked the pool. The pool was really what caught Mama's attention, specifically the thicket of verdant elephant-ear plants that wrapped around the outdoor patio, intertwining with fat terra cotta pots of bright fuchsia bougainvillea, creating the feeling of a miniature jungle. It was there, fifty-six days later, with the faintest breath of spring in the air, she gave birth to five kittens. My parents instantly regretted telling me they were there, for when we made our pilgrimage to my grandparents' tidy house I skipped polite chat and bolted down the stairs, pressing my face against the sliding door in hopes of seeing the kittens, so desperate I caused a clatter and an obvious round white fog of my breath against the glass. Startled by the commotion, Mama deftly ushered her round and mewling children back under the elephant ears, her lustrous tabby fur slipping through the giant leaves and closing them behind her like a beaded curtain. As March gave way to April, I learned to control my volume, and as I calmed, I caught more glimpses of black and white fluff, tabby tails, and tufted orange ears. With every passing day, they grew bolder. Mama sat just at the edge of the little jungle one Sunday, watching as the five tussled in the late morning light, chasing pillbugs across the patio. Mama was starting to get that restless, primeval itch that made her turn to house hunting again, and the kittens had started to find meals on their own. As I watched the little clowder tumble in the sun, I overheard the adults in the room ruminating that it wouldn't be long before all of the cats had wandered off and we should probably consider sprinkling a box of mothballs in the bushes before the next set of pests moved in. My pleading eight-year-old eyes turned to each grown up in turn, looking for weakness of will that might somehow result in my acquisition of a pet before they aged out of my grandparents' garden. A firm no, an exasperated head shake, a “don't even ask..” But bless him, my father, well into his sixties at the time and perhaps not at the peak of his physical prime, stood up and slid the sliding glass door open, startling Mama cat who dove into the thicket, teenaged kittens in hot pursuit. Dad stood as a Midwesterner does, hands-on-hips, scrutinizing the situation and evaluating all possible escape routes. Without further prompting, he plunged into the elephant-ear thicket and a great cacophony of rustling and squalling carried into the house. Just as my mother began her protests in urgent, as I clenched my fists under my chin in trepidation, he emerged— mottled old hands bloody, Dockers khakis covered with mulch, and clutching a screaming, swatting calico kitten. I called her Wildflower.

A wonderful feeling of joy would come to me by opening the gray door of my grandparents' big house, which grew small as I grew big. We had to travel to my Grandparents house for about one hour, and I clearly remember that we had flown over this beautiful, green and full of life oak forest which was followed by a pink lake. The best part of the trip was guiding the taxi driver to the allies that would lead to their house. After opening the gray metallic door, I would look for my grandma. She would run outside of the house with a big smile on her face and would greet us with hugs and kisses with a big excitement and joy. The house I will forever have embedded in my mind is located in Tehran, Iran at the end of a blind alley. My Grandparents' house looks quiet and serene, surrounded by its own garden. The front door of the house is connected with the garden by a stone path made of limestone which is smooth to step on. Along both sides of the path were some pink and purple wildlings. The garden is bordered by a circle of different types of tall, green trees and beautiful, colorful flowers which made the garden smell amazing at all times. As far as I can recall red roses were in the garden at all times. The dew would shine on top of the red petals every morning. The first time I heard that roses bloom once or twice a year I was surprised. I remember I would spend the afternoons enjoying the coziness and happiness of the living room, “red room” as everyone calls it. Someone outside the family cannot guess which room it is. Because the room is no longer covered in red velvet wallpaper and a new life has been given to the furniture. They don't have small red roses on top of the milky background anymore. Instead, it is covered in a light blue velour. There is still evidence of red in the room. A medium-sized painting of red rose bush is hanging on a white plaster wall. The painting is in bright colors but somehow it is still dark. It is framed in dark wood. Every color in it is bold and it is painted with such precise lines that it almost looks like a photo. The lines are curved, yet sharply defined. I never saw the “red room” in its original state. I didn't like drinking any kind of tea but the only time that I would be the afternoons in the “red room”. My grandma would bring me a special one. It was lighter than the other ones. The best part about it was the sweets next to it. Carrot cake, banana bread, apple pie or petibor biscuits, didn't matter which one, they all tasted differently in the red room. They tasted wonderful. After having tea I would invite my dolls for a picnic. I would sit under a short tree with feather-like leaves in lavender, next to the swimming pool. The main element of the tea party was my small set of rose teapots and cups. They were similar to a set that grandma has. I would spend hours under the shadow of that tree. My grandma would make a big jar of lemonade with big pieces of ice, it was the colour of summer sun. It would steal the heat from my sole. Sometimes she would play with me while drinking the cold lemonade and she would tell me stories. These days when we fly to Tehran there are no signs of green forest or pink lake. I don't need to guide the taxi driver though the allies. He has the destination address on his phone. Still, sometimes I show them the way. They may think I'm weird but I don't care. I like to go through the allies as fast as possible and get to that grey door. These days grandma doesn't run out in the garden when we arrive. She observes me running through the gate and then garden with a warm smile on her face from a large window of the red room. Although the garden still has green plants, it is not as green as it one day was. Once in a while bushes of roses appear, and grandma asks someone to pick a few for the red room. Grandma doesn't pour tea anymore. So no one brings me a special one. I still drink tea in the red room but without sweets. Grandma forgets how many she had and it is not good for her so anyone who pours tea doesn't bring sweets with it. Grandma points at the dired short tree with feather-like leaves in lavender and tells me “do you remember the picnics you did under that tree?” After having a bitter sip of the tea she points at the short tree again and asks, “do you remember the picnics you did under that tree?”. I miss everything about the tea and chocolate cake in that room but I prefer drinking bitter tea with her in the red room to anywhere else. I enjoy listening to her stories over and over just like the old days in the garden. The roses are not always around, we should enjoy their company while they are still around.

I wonder if one can actually sense the beginning of his end. Death. Manifest to mankind yet veiled when it arrives. For three days my grandfather had complained of a tightness in his chest. The fourth day there were no complains. That night he passed away quietly in his sleep. I remember how he'd take my hand and place it on his chest, directly above his heart saying, “it's like someone's standing right here". The rhythmic beat would feel just fine. To this day I wonder what had made him go quiet the day before his demise. Had he known? Could he feel it? The soul slowly gliding out of his body leaving it stone cold or was he asleep all long? I wish he had known no fear. People say there are five stages of grief- denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally, acceptance. My grandmother had only known the fourth. The news had left her in tatters. She was torn from the inside. Every day she'd go visit grandfather's grave, shower it with rose petals and come back enveloped in a new layer of gloom. Talking to her only worsened her pain so we thought it would be better to just let her be. Time passed gradually. It is July 19th. My grandparents could've been celebrating their 56th anniversary just like they always did in the backyard with all twenty five of my cousins and their parents. We'd set up a long wooden table and decorate it with huge sunflowers that we plucked from Mrs.Faizan's garden who lived next door. She despised the action otherwise but allowed us just for the sake of her friend's anniversary. The women of the family would fill the table to its corners with delicacies brought from their homes. We'd sing songs and recall moments that would leave us laughing so hard that it felt our sides would split. The sun would leave us burnt by the end of the day but we couldn't care less for happiness would swallow every other feeling. I wonder if we will feel the same way we did back in those days. Someday, maybe. Today, replacing the table is the bed my grandparents once shared. My sister and I carefully bring out the mattress and set it over the wooden frame. Following it, we spread on the mattress the finest bed spread we own -blue Egyptian silk with yellow flowers marking the borders. I place two big pillows at an angle against the headboard. One of them has sunk inside due to excess use, the other one seems fine. Next, we place a comforter at the foot of the bed careful enough to straighten out every single wrinkle. The bed is placed in the exact middle of the backyard underneath the sky which resembles a canvas painted ink blue. Speckled throughout the blue eternity are innumerable stars. One of them is strangely big and bright. My grandmother swears it appeared the night her husband left her. I avert my gaze from the sky and look towards the door where my grandmother has just appeared. She looks small and fragile in her ankle length night gown which clings loosely to her bony frame. Her hair hangs in loose curls that are gently moving with the wind. Etched on her face is an expression unreadable. But I believe she's happy. That she has reached the final stage of grief. I walk towards her, grab hold of her arm, and lead her towards the bed. Carefully, she gets on top and lies down closing her eyes the instant her head hits the pillow. I notice her lips that have curled into a tiny smile. Out of the corner of her eye falls a small tear that surfs over her temple and gets absorbed into the cotton underneath. She sighs and rolls over. Tonight, on her 56th wedding anniversary, my grandmother wants to sleep under the brightest star.

Sitting on the stool in Gran's kitchen. The fire is popping and crackling in the stove, and I edge my stool slightly closer to the good, cosy warmth as Gran pushes another block of wood in through the little blue stove door. The old black kettle is sitting on the heat and whistling away, really whistling like kettles do in stories, and I look across at the wooden door of the pantry where I know the biscuit jar lives. It's on one of the side shelves where it has been as long as I can remember. It wouldn't be right if it was moved anywhere else. "Go down to the chook pen and see if there are eggs, darling," Gran says, moving to the pantry and pulling out the jar just as I knew she would. We call them chooks because we're country people--she is, at least, and I am one at heart. Gran is the only person who ever calls me darling; she wouldn't seem like Gran if she didn't. She tells me to take as many biscuits as I like, and then she pours out Grandad's tea into the cup that he always, always uses. I jump off my stool, taking two biscuits to put into my pockets, and I go out into the porch to put on my shoes. Then I open the door and skip out along the stone path, through the gate and race down as fast as I can to the pen. There are no eggs; it's the biggest disappointment in the world while it lasts. The air is cold and smells good, and as I make my way back to the warm house the rain drops begin to fall. Of course, I don't run now. I've got to stand and lift up my head to catch raindrops on my tongue. When I open the creaky door to the kitchen and go to take my place on the stool, Grandad sits in his chair drinking tea. He's come from his study; it's his special Grandad place. Sometimes I go in there and look at the old picture of his grandmother that sits on his study table, or the one of his curly haired mother on his shelf. The chair he sits on has always been his chair, as long as I remember. I don't know how, exactly, but it's just the right chair for him and if he sat on any other chair he wouldn't seem so much like Grandad. "Can I please have a cup of tea, Gran?" I ask innocently, because I want to be grown up like her; it's fun to try grown up drinks when you're only six years old. "You drink tea?" Gran asks, and she looks shocked. But then she agrees and goes to the cupboard, sliding back the glass door, and takes one of the teacups off a hook. It's one of the tiny ones. It's much too small for a big girl like me, but I don't say anything, because it's Gran who is giving it to me and I wouldn't ever dare be cross at Gran. Now I'm sitting and looking out the window, and I really am cross because I'm not allowed to go outside; Gran says I'll catch cold if I go out now. But she's gone out herself, to lock up the chooks. And as I sit here brooding, alone, the curtain rod somehow comes down by itself and falls on my head, and I'm just sure my day couldn't get worse. But then I remember where I am; I'm at Gran and Grandad's, and it's the best place in the entire world. Later we'll eat tea and then there'll be dessert, and probably Grandad will play at the old piano that has lived in the house since he was six years old, like me. I'll have to sit listening for ten minutes, but I don't care, because to me, he's a master pianist and the piano doesn't sound out of tune and old. Maybe I'll get to have a go on the old accordion. Everything in the house is so much older than me, but I like it that way. It means that everything is familiar and cosy, like the fireplace and the kettle and the wonderful house itself. Grandad says it's good to be old, and Gran is always telling me how good it is to be a little girl like me, able to dance and run and jump and twirl around and around. They're both right. I just think we're all the best as we are; old and young, and in between … it wouldn't feel quite the same way if anything was changed.