The sound of the tombak and santoor mingled together echo off the dome ceilings above us. I was dreaming, or maybe I was just living a dream where an orchestra of music, laughter and Farsi permeated through my ears and into my mind. Smoke swirled around the room and danced out of the mouths of covered young women getting a taste of life from a galyoon. My family and I sat with full bellies around the restaurant table, drinking cups of chai and drinking in each other. We have been separated by mountains and oceans, but now we have arrived.

Iranians all sway the same. Whenever we feel groundbreaking sorrow, or when we are listening to sweet melodies that take us away to distant memories and places, we sway. We sway to the internal rhythm of our hearts that are linked together by the same tune. The haji is tapping the tombak with all his feeling as his body also moves in sync with ours. Haji plays the song that all Iranians know and unite under. “Ey Iran ey marz po gohar..” bellows out from each of us as it is our duty and necessity to be a part of this moment and sing proudly this song. All of our eyes are gleaming with a mixture of melancholy, pride and longing. My heart is exploding like a firework that refuses to be over, and salty tears begin to burn the brims of my eyes. I scan the room to see the faces of those that are participating in our chorus, and I am filled with warmth because these faces look like mine. These are my brothers and sisters that I have long been away from, these strangers that sway the same as us.

A child’s laughter is loud in my ears. Her laugh sounds unburdened by the world and chirps the way birds do as the sun welcomes itself into the sky at dawn. My eyes search the room for the young girl, and before I can find her my mother who is swaying besides me asks me why I am laughing.

The silence seeps in. Our bodies are waking up from our dreams, but our eyes are wide awake. We step outside the restaurant that is as brown as our skin, and into the night that is lit up by the headlights of millions of cars roaming the streets. I loosen my rusari so that the night breeze can cool my skin and let my hair blow free. The breeze strokes my neck and leaves my skin with goosebumps that raises the dark hairs of my arm.

The seven of us squeeze into the five-person sedan, but none of us mind the tight space because we are trying to feel as much of each other before we must part. I sit next to my grandmother who smells like freshly bloomed flowers on a beautiful spring day, and I lean my head against hers. Her soft hand reaches for mine as she says “gorbounet beram,” meaning “I would die for you,” and I reply “khoda nakoneh,” meaning “I hope that God never lets that happen.” I stare out the window looking at the city around us, the image before me grows blurrier as my eyelids become heavy. I am left only with smell of freshly bloomed flowers and a warmth in my heart.