A Whole Civilization, Alive Tonight
I’m thinking of you tonight, Arvin.
Exactly 20 years ago,
on Lazarus Saturday, 2006,
you watched your mom,
both of you visiting from Iran,
perform a Zoroastrian blessing
for the wedding of her cousin and me.
Cloth over our heads.
Sugar cubes rubbed to sweeten our life together.
Honey to sustain us.
Thread to bind us in one union.
Mirror for purity, candles for light,
scissors to cut away obstacles.
Then the Episcopal priest
led communion
as Karin and Linford played
“Drunkard’s Prayer.”
In the party that followed,
Persian food awed and wine flowed.
The English and Persian relatives
scattered all over the world
gathered and vied to be heard.
Paste coworkers
danced to the mix of
Persian, classic pop, and indie-rock.
The teetotaling, non-dancing, Midwestern Nazarenes
from my side
stood off to the side,
but took it all in stride.
Twenty years later,
Karin and Linford still tell this story
to various crowds,
especially when I’m in the crowd.
But I’m thinking of little four-year-old you, Arvin.
Your wide-eyed amazement at the spectacle.
I haven’t seen you since,
except in the background of a couple video calls.
But I know you’ve had to evade harm from your government.
And now mine.
I can’t imagine this spectacle through your eyes.
So tonight,
I’m thinking of you, Arvin.
And of whole civilizations,
all trying to stay alive.
First cousin, once removed.
That seems to mean something different now.