But Mahin has many lights. Her lights are constantly being turned on and off. It doesn’t matter if a few of them are off. Some others are still on.

We gather around the packages that Mahin has sent. I open her letter, and Shahla opens one of the packages with a knife.

Mahin writes that she is now living with a wonderful young American. A picture of them is in the middle of a package of clothes. They have no problems. Only that sometimes they don’t understand each other’s language. Mahin hasn’t written anything about her Iranian husband. Apparently, they lived together only for a few months. She writes about the lotions and the powders she has sent. I read a few lines while keeping an eye on Maman and Shahla, who have looked through the package and are now playing with a box that looks different.

Mahin says that this is the best quality imitation breasts she has found. She writes that they are a little small and are not as big as Maman’s, which you could put a glass of tea on without worrying if it would fall.

Maman is lovingly cursing Mahin.

Shahla says, “Where did she find this long-legged guy?”

I take the picture and look at it. The long-legged guy is smiling. He looks biracial and is holding a happy Mahin under his wing like a tiny chick. The picture moves from hand to hand. The special box moves from hand to hand. The letter moves from hand to hand.

I have the picture again. I cover the body of the long-legged guy with my two fingers. I look at Mahin anew; frizzy black hair, naked arms, and tight shorts. I move the picture back and forth.

Maman looks at me with surprise, “Don’t you recognize your own sister?”

Chapter 52

52

I like the basement. Sometimes I like to go back there. Sometimes it’s the only place that you can go from the ground level. It’s been a long time since I realized that I have been carrying a basement within me. Since I have discovered the basement is my starting point, I stop there often. This time I have found the courage to walk there and carefully look at its walls. I have even considered putting up a light on the low ceiling. The basement no longer scares me. I want to go there. This time with my eyes open, feeling no fear.

I have been a tenant for thirty-five years in this basement, and now I have a sense of ownership. I want to find out about all its corners and passages. I want to see the stairs clearly, to get to know the hallways and look closely at the people. I have always looked at it through darkness and have seen only shadows and ghosts. How could I see anything else when fear blinded me and disgust stopped my breath?