Time is the longest distance between two places.
All in memories of youth
Time is the longest distance between two places.
How an old aunt crocheted violently to give vent to unexpressed feelings. She was short, black-clad, with her face and neck the leathery texture of tortoise skin, and had the indeterminate age of “ancient” in my childhood eyes.
You know the feeling of other-wordliness when you step into a new country for the first time? Iran felt like another world.
How an object can represent summers of freedom, youthful love and home