MANGHAL
Dedicated to my grandmother
That old brick house hosted
three generations:
grandmother, mother, me
My favorite corner was
an open space living-room
with 3 tall walls and
a dome-shaped ceiling
The third wall had a door
to grandmother’s bedroom
covered by a wooden door
low enough so that she could
open it while sitting on velvet
mattresses laid on the ground
In one corner of the living room
there was an old red rug,
a pale, purple sitting pillow
that always looked like
grandmother sat on it
moments ago and still held
the shape of her body
During that summer
she would walk graciously
to other end of the house
to pick up a freshly laid egg
from the chicken coops
Every morning she started
her “manghal” with a few pieces
of dry wood and coal,
where she made a pot of hot tea
and roasted an egg in its shell
Now after decades,
I think of her,
imagining that house
with an orchestra of grandmother’s
movements and voice,
in still moments of memory
exactly at a moment she
opens the chicken coop
and lets them free in the garden
the moment she pours tea
in fenjoon and picked up an egg from
manghal, with some ash on it
Eternal aroma of toasted egg
fresh bread, freshly brewed tea
with a few pieces of rock sugar
kindness and love
on grandmother's face,
are lifelong delicacies!
Isn't that all you need
to become a poet?
*fenjoon= tea cup
*Manghal=metal tray with hot charcoal on which to brew tea
Painting oil on canvas by Mahnaz Badihian
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