A Cardboard Box

Sometimes, especially after a harsh, long Canadian winter, it seems as though spring will never come, that it has frozen to death somewhere deep in the ground, buried inside an eternal shroud of glittering ice. It’s a mid April morning, and my three children, Bahram, Baba and Behzad, wave to me from the dirty windows of the yellow school bus. I wave back. My husband, Farzad, steps out of the house, wearing a navy suit and a striped blue tie. He gives me a little kiss and says “I love you,” but by the absent look in his eyes, I can tell that his mind is already at the office, and he is gone before I have a chance to say “I love you too.” I check my flower beds. The dark-green leaves of my tulips have broken the surface of the soil, but the landscape is still grey and the wind whips against me. It starts to rain, and although I hate being cold and wet, I stay outside, breathing in the scent of the waking earth.

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 1. Purchase the book to read the full piece.