Ava Ashtiani

I visited his late grandmother’s house in December, met his mom for the first time, and played cards on the wooden dining room table while sipping on microwaved mint tea. The house sat on the bottom of a hill, a small, one story ranch style with uncomplicated rooflines. He took me through the back entrance, pushing past a sliding glass door. It was a familiar habit of his, and for the first time I was a part of it. The house bordered a golf course that overlooked the city at the thirteenth hole. After brief hello’s and it’s nice to finally meet you’s we walked it by ourselves, the three of us, clad in worn coats and shy boots that followed the trails of conversation. We smiled quietly as leaves and decay cried under us, the lazy descent of the sun tracking our movements without offering warmth. I held my breath instead of saying the wrong thing. Hopeful at first, always hopeful, until it started to rain.  The walls of the house were much like any other: colored, cream, and cracking...

Shirin’s Funeral Cookbook a short story by Ava Ashtiani My family masks the stench of grief with sugar and honey. The quiet voices of my mom and grandma speaking Farsi are enough to send me over to the kitchen to eavesdrop but they never say anything interesting. It’s always about whether there is enough food. I don’t know why they always worry about this, there’s enough food for my entire 2nd grade class to have seconds! In our small kitchen, Maman and both of my grandmother’s crowd the space, all eager to do their part. My mom calls it healing, but I don’t really know what she means by that. I watch in a corner where I am out of the way but still surrounded by the commotion, my heart pacing in my chest as the anticipation for the day settles in.  Sugar, flour, butter, saffron, rosewater and raisins cover the countertops as the women mix and pour and sprinkle. My mother’s mom, Maman Pari, grabs chunks of homemade cookie dough, shaping them in her wrinkled hands before placing them...