Of course...

The rug in the entry way to my grandparents’ house was folded up against

the wall in the corner and the white title/black caulk ground reached in through the holes in my socks as I walked in to give my grandmother a hug. She told me that they had hired someone to help clean the house, and that they were currently eating spaghetti in the kitchen. My grandfather sat at the desk in their bedroom, tugging at the strands of white hair that made up the sides of his head. He moved his head up slowly when I entered their room, immediately to the right of the entry way, then quickly jumped to his feet to grab my body in his hands. As he released me he told me that we would be eating lunch at his desk to discuss things and that my grandmother would soon be in with the spaghetti.

The food was a good, carb rich bed of noodles with lingering red sauce, onions

and ground beef. We both quickly dug in, “So,” he said in his drawn out way, “how are you doing?” “Good. I’m good.” “Good. How is work? Is no good?” “No, work is fine. It’s very good.” He then responded in Persian by saying good and I thanked him in return. I looked down at the glass topped desk at what he was working on when I came in to a calendar and a variety of flight plans. He noticed my eyes. “We need to get ready for Haifa.” “You’re going on Pilgrimage?!” “Yes,” he shrugged off, “we will go in March 17 to March 29.” “Wow, congratulations! Are you excited?” “Yes,” he may have been preoccupied thinking about the plans, “Momman’jon, Samira, Masood, Aria and me.” “You’re bringing Samira, Masood and the baby?” “Yes, of course,” not trying to sound condescending.

My grandmother then came into the room to collect our plates in a tired walk

with bothered hip joints, “Momman, you’re going on your fifth Pilgrimage?” “No, forth.” It doesn’t seem to phase her at all that this is an important event, going on Pilgrimage. While living in Iran, they were able to take a quick flight into Israel and visit for a nine-day Pilgrimage nearly when they pleased. The idea of visiting again was humbling instead of exciting for them as my grandmother cracked a half smile. “You’ll have to say prayers for us while you’re there.” “Yes, of course.” She laughed and smiled at me free from any of the pains that plagued her, and gave me a hug and kiss on the cheek to remind me that it’s not just in Haifa that she prayers for her grandkids. “Thank you, Momman’jon.”