Rudabe

I said: “Do you have time today to grab a coffee together?”
She replied: “Hi. No.”

That was the last message we exchanged—though it wasn’t the last time I thought of her. I needed to get her out of my head, to hand her over to the current of passing time.

The holidays were near. Out of all the plans circling in my mind, I chose to spend them with friends in nature. And where better than by the river? We spent the night with the sound of water flowing beside us. In the morning I finally realized why I had come here: to let go.

I had a few shots of alcohol. Music and voices spun around in my head. I looked around. The reeds swayed beautifully in the wind, their reflections doubling their grace in the water. In my mind I could still hear her words: “Hi. No.”

I began cutting the stems. I remembered our last conversation, how we had talked about birth and motherhood. I told myself: the one who gave herself up so that another could be born was Rudabeh. But when Rudabeh stared into the water, seeing only her own reflection, she found herself alone. In the reflection she discovered Narcissus, and with that, birth came to an end.

I had cut enough stems. I went back, had a few more shots of alcohol, and started stripping leaves from the stalks. The voices still swirled with the music in my head, while my friends kept recording videos.

I stepped into the river; tied a stone to a branch and threw it into the water. I bound the stalks with their own leaves, like the ritual of knotting greens on Sizdah Bedar, wishing for luck. The stems floated close to the surface but did not sink.

In the reflection of the water, I kept hearing it:
Hi. No.