Resolution 598

All eyes were on my father’s hands. It was midsummer. I was almost ten years old. In our living room, my father was kneeling on the floor, carefully turning the dial on the old transistor radio, his gaze fixed on the tiny piece of plastic. My mother stood a few feet away, in the kitchen doorway, staring at my father and drying her already dry hands on an old dishtowel. There was a strange silence in our small apartment and in the building. In fact, the whole neighborhood seemed to be on pause.

Suddenly, the midday news’s intro music blared through the space. My father adjusted the frequency until the sound was clear. Then, he turned the volume down so only we could hear. He straightened his back and put his shaking hands on his lap. Behind him, I stood frozen, my toy gun in my hand.

“You’re listening to VOA Farsi, from Washington,” said the news anchor. “Today, the supreme leader of Iran, Ayatollah Khomeini, accepted the ceasefire between Iran and Iraq . . .”

Like melting butter in a pan, my father leaned back, stretched his legs in front of him, and sat on his ass. He looked up at my mother with an expression that suggested he’d lost something, then he turned and looked at me. Seeing my pale, scared face, he exhaled audibly. He tried to smile, but his tired face muscles wouldn’t let him. He opened his arms slowly, but the invitation was cold, and I was afraid to move.

My mother retreated to the kitchen, turned on the faucet, and sobbed without restraint. The news anchor read the ceasefire resolution section by section, his voice echoing in the silence. Massaging his legs as if trying to get blood to circulate in them, my father called my mother’s name.

“It’s finished. It’s all over. Did you hear? It’s all over.”

I ran into the kitchen to find my mother sitting on the floor with her back against the sink cabinet, wringing her hands. Her sobs had become quiet tears. I couldn’t tell if she was happy or afraid. Looking up, she saw the distress on my face and beckoned me into her arms. I ran toward her and nestled my cold, tiny body into her warm, kind one. She stroked my hair softly with one hand and wiped her face with the other.

I heard my father approach the kitchen doorway and glanced up. “Did you hear it?” he said, more loudly. I couldn’t tell if he was happy or mad. I couldn’t even tell if he was talking only to us or if he wanted everybody in our hometown to hear. Then he turned around and left.

Tears rolled down my face. My mother turned off the faucet, wiped my eyes with her soft hands, and, keeping me tucked under her arm, walked out of the kitchen.

My father was pacing our small living room and muttering to himself. Every few steps, he’d stand still and turn his head toward the window. It looked as though he wanted to open it and shout at everyone on the street. He’d done it before when he was mad at the neighborhood kids down the alley. But this was different. He seemed to be afraid of something, or someone.

When he turned his head toward my mother and me, a tiny smile appeared on his face. Seconds later, undeniable rage consumed that smile.

“What will happen now?” my mother asked.

My father was looking at us as if he couldn’t see us, just as he did whenever we waited quietly in the dark underground shelter during bombardments.

“What will happen now?” my mother asked again.

My father turned back to the window. With the tips of his fingers, he began peeling the tape, in the shape of an X, off the glass.

When he finally spoke, his voice shook. “It’s all over now.”