Azam Salehi
Bio
Fiction and non fiction writer
Stories (7)
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Whispers on the Skin
Her name was Lilia. Her smile as wide as her face, with bright eyes. A bit chubby, and so friendly that I honestly don’t remember seeing anything other than her face. Harley, their little white dog, is friends with mine Kaity. We sometimes pass by each other, say hello, and exchange pleasantries. Today when I saw them, the dogs started playfully bickering. I commented on the weather, and then I noticed two cute butterflies tattooed on her ankle.
By Azam Salehiabout a year ago in Chapters
The airport sorrow
We can never get used to airports—the sheer weight of distance and the torrent of emotions they bring. Who ever said that when we hold each other tightly, a hundred times, a thousand times at the moment of goodbye, the warmth of our embrace would linger, keeping us close for a hundred or a thousand days until we meet again? Who ever claimed that if we trace the steps of travelers to the other side of those cold, unforgiving airport gates, or to the ends of winding streets and lonely roads, and then pour out a jar of tears in their wake, they’d somehow return sooner?
By Azam Salehiabout a year ago in Chapters
Let us cherish our windows
I was reflecting on the essence of windows—the window in a room, facing a garden, a courtyard, or a street. This often square companion frames the seasons, people, the sky, and trees, its view constantly changing. How insignificant the paintings on our walls seem in the presence of a window.
By Azam Salehiabout a year ago in Chapters
Hey "Bob"
In our neighborhood, there was an old house—a gray, sad bungalow. During the summer, as I walked by, I would sometimes see a thin old man sitting on a chair on the balcony facing the street, his dim eyes gazing into the distance. You could call him "Bob." I never saw a woman around him, and he was very frail, small in stature, dressed in white, and leaning on a cane. I saw him a few times. If I greeted him, he might not have heard, or perhaps he didn't have the strength to respond.
By Azam Salehiabout a year ago in Writers
Touching the Unseen
In our everyday lives, what do we really see? Or what do we truly look at? What do we hear, and how do these senses combine to shape our world? We listen to beautiful music, watch musicians pour their souls into every note, and hear the calming sounds of rivers, birds singing, the rush of water, the flutter of colorful wings. These experiences stir something deep inside us, and we try to put that feeling into words.
By Azam Salehiabout a year ago in Writers
"Meeting with Earthly Suns"
Last year, on a Tuesday afternoon, I found myself drawn to the third floor of the company by the scent of incense, like the child in the story following breadcrumbs through the forest. The instructor had prescribed relaxation, but my aching shoulder had other plans. That hour of yoga is one of those rare moments I wish could last forever, much like the soothing hour of a massage, the quiet hour of writing, or the healing hour of therapy—those precious times when we allow our body and soul to stretch, unwind, and simply be.
By Azam Salehiabout a year ago in Fiction
