Dear friend,

I am indeed thrilled I’ve finally found a friend I can write to, if not talk to. I hope that you don’t mind if I number my letters to keep track of them easily. I trust this letter will find you well. I’m OK too. People say that life isn’t perfect, but I have to admit that I’m really fine. I don’t have any serious health problems. I have enough monthly income to live modestly. My new place is also fine—not as big as my house in Tehran, but enough space for a widower like me. It’s a bachelor on the first floor of a lowrise building. My son says I’m lucky he’s found such a nice affordable place where I can keep my privacy. He is absolutely right. Although my son and his wife were very nice with me while I lived with them, I didn’t feel comfortable and happy. That’s what he says, and he’s right about that, too. He’s got a good head on his shoulders and he always says the right things. That’s why I didn’t say no when he said, “Dad, you’re alone in Tehran, sell the house and come to Toronto to live with us.”

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 2. Purchase the book to read the full piece.