The house above the tailor
Tehran, 1978
She kept the front key pinned into her blouse because she never trusted herself to put it down. The staircase creaked on the third step from the top and we learned to skip it after her nap hour.
My sister kept her limes in a jar on the windowsill. The biggest one was always for our father’s tea. We could look, but we were not to touch. It was a small thing, saving a lime for someone.
In that house, small things were how we looked after one another.
