Letter #1

Translated from the Persian original.

Hello, my dear

You had asked me not to tell anyone anything, and just like the toy revolver I stole as a kid from my spoiled cousin, I hid you from everyone. My cousin had no idea how to play with a revolver, and his room was full of all sorts of amusements anyway. I'm sure he didn't even cry over his revolver. But I deserved to have a good revolver, because first of all I loved playing guns, and then, from the moment I saw that revolver, I wanted it. I even told my mother I wanted to take that revolver home with me, but she gave me some ridiculous reason, that everyone should play with their own toys. Sure, I was a kid, but I understood logic. My mother didn't realize at all that to me the gun wasn't a toy. One way or another I took the gun, brought it home and hid it in a corner. I don't know why they say stealing is bad. Never in my life did I go to sleep as happy as I did that night.

My dear, you must think I had no toys of my own. No, I even had a gun, but, well, my heart wanted that one gun. I don't even know why the gun of my dreams had fallen into that boy's hands. Every day, whenever my mother got busy with something that took a while, I'd take the gun out and play, but those games were short-lived, just like the brief moments when I see you in secret. Because my mother would show up and the gun might be found out.

When we went to family gatherings, all the boys would bring their toys and guns and play together, but I couldn't bring the gun, they might see, they might figure it out. Once my mother brought my own gun, but I had no desire at all to play. My playmates thought I didn't like playing cops and robbers.

Once, when I'd been sick for a week, burning with fever, and hadn't played with it, the gun came to my bedside to ask how I was. I said, you want to get us in trouble? Go back to your place, quick. It went, but I think it was hurt. It didn't, at all, understand my fear of, of losing it.

That same night I dreamed my gun wasn't in its place. I jolted awake and rushed to its hiding place. The gun was where it belonged. The sound of the door had woken my mother, and she asked, what are you doing here? I said I'd had a bad dream.

My dear, in those days I lived in constant dread of losing my gun. One day I finished my homework and went to my revolver. It wasn't there. I searched again. It wasn't there. Crying, I went to my mother, what did you do with my gun? She said she didn't know anything about it, she said she hadn't taken it, she said what revolver. She said, did you have another gun? All I could do was cry. I couldn't tell my mother, though in the end she found out.

My gun had walked out on me.

My dear, that night I understood why stealing is bad. But honestly, I never regretted what I did. A few days passed and I told my grandfather about it. I never thought he'd understand how I felt, I just had to tell someone, but he knew something interesting about guns. He said guns were made for frightening before they were made for killing. When you love a stolen thing, and one made of fear and death at that, you must always have the courage to lose it.

My dear, I have the courage to lose you. What I'm afraid of is that you'll walk out on your own, and go.

Download PDF