Notes After My Departure

Notes After My Departure

by Faramarz Parsa

Dedication

To my wife,

whose quiet presence kept my heart warm through the years.

And to my children and grandchildren,

who will always carry the meaning of love

as their father’s truest gift.

1. The Final Journey

After eighty years of life in exile,

I finally put on the garments of my last journey

and went toward eternity.

I wasn’t sad about leaving.

I had lived my life,

walked my own roads.

Only one thing still weighed heavy on my heart —

leaving my wife behind.

She became so alone.

I used to care for her —

made her tea, shared bread with her,

reminded her of her medicine.

We didn’t talk much,

but we were together.

And that was enough.

Now I feel sorry for those who must leave their work and daily life

to come and bury my body.

Everyone is busy —

not just here in exile, but everywhere.

Even my own children visit for a few short hours,

talk about their struggles, and rush away.

I don’t blame them.

That’s just how the world has become.

People live by their clocks now,

not by their hearts.

Maybe it’s better this way —

to pack one’s bag while the mind is still clear,

so neither we nor our loved ones have to suffer.

I have gone…

but don’t think I’m completely gone.

Sometimes I still hear her voice whispering:

“Did you eat?”

And I smile in silence.

2. Beyond the Silence

There is no sound here —

only a silence that speaks.

No bright light, no darkness,

just a soft dawn that never ends.

At first, I thought death was an ending.

Now I see it’s a beginning —

a way to see without eyes,

to hear without ears,

to understand without words.

When I closed my eyes for the last time,

everything stayed behind:

the old chair by the window,

the half-empty cup of tea,

and my wife sitting quietly beside the curtain.

I wanted to reach for her hand,

to tell her not to be afraid —

that I was still near, only lighter now.

But here, there are different rules.

The soul only watches…

and smiles.

From above, the world looks smaller.

People hurry,

carrying the heavy load of time

without even knowing where they’re going.

Sometimes, a breeze carries the scent of home —

fresh bread, warm sunlight —

and it reminds me how alive I once was

without ever realizing it.

There is no sorrow here,

no joy either —

only understanding.

That life never truly leaves us,

even when we leave it.

3. Seeing Her in the Light

I don’t know how long it had been.

There is no time here.

Then, from far away, a light appeared —

soft and familiar,

like her voice when she used to say,

“Rest now, you’re tired.”

I turned.

And there she was.

Calm, gentle, smiling —

just as I remembered.

She came closer and said,

“You took your time…

I’ve missed you.”

I smiled.

“I thought you still had things to do,” I said.

She shook her head softly.

“There was nothing left down there.

The house felt empty without you.”

We stood in silence.

No tears, no touch —

but we felt each other,

as if the distance between us

had never existed.

I asked,

“Is it cold down there?”

She smiled.

“No, just tired.

People have forgotten what love means.

They’re always in a hurry,

as if running away from themselves.”

Then she reached for my hand —

or maybe I only felt that she did —

and said,

“Come with me.

There’s no loneliness where we’re going.”

“Where?” I asked.

She looked at me with peace in her eyes.

“To the place of light —

where there’s no past and no tomorrow.

Only us.”

We started walking together.

Light flowed beneath our feet,

like a river made of morning.

We rose — not upward, not downward —

just lighter, freer,

like a leaf finally learning

that wind means life.

4. The House Beneath the Light

We stood side by side.

Below us, a soft river of light was flowing.

Within it, I saw our little world —

our home.

The window was still open every morning,

the flowerpots dry but still standing,

and my wooden chair waiting in the corner.

She said,

“Look… they still open the window every day.”

I nodded.

“Yes, but our scent is gone.”

One of our children entered the room,

looked at my picture,

and gently brushed the dust away.

He smiled —

but there was a quiet sadness in it,

the kind only fathers understand.

“I wish they knew we’re still near,” I said.

She answered,

“They don’t have to know.

It’s enough if they remember.

Love isn’t kept in pictures —

it’s kept in the heart.”

The light around us grew softer.

We could hear laughter,

the ring of a phone,

the smell of food rising from below.

Life goes on —

not because we are gone,

but because it must.

She turned to me and said,

“Now do you see why death isn’t to be feared?”

“Yes,” I said,

“because death isn’t closing a door.

It’s opening our eyes.”

She smiled.

“It’s not time to sleep anymore —

it’s time to see.”

We drifted together into the light —

not with sorrow,

but with the peace of an old song’s final note.

And far away, a voice whispered:

“Leaving is never the end…

It’s just another way of staying.”

1996 maryland