I saw my red earmuffs again.
We were sitting on the bus
Going home from school.
It was windy outside
And the palm trees trembled.
He opened his folder
And showed his homework:
And one ear...whatever it is."
An old man turned his head
And said: "earmuffs"
He had to color them
And count each group.
The bus was filled with words
And the windows grew frosty.
My father brought them from America
They were soft and cozy
Red on the outside and white inside
With a green headpiece in between.
We were sitting in the "turret room".
Father wore a sheepskin Caucasian cap.
His eyes were opened wide
And his hands covered his ears
Looking like a wolf in the snow.
Friday mornings, we went to Mt. Sofa.
The snow was everywhere
And I wore my red earmuffs.
We passed big bolders
And sat by the Khajik Fountain
To have our breakfast.
Father had Istanbul potatoes
And Dr. Khalili, offered sour cherry jam.
Then, we leaned back toward the bolder
Watching the city's skyline.
Father smoked his once-a-week cigarette
And Mr. Varzandeh wiped his mouth
With his wide, worn-out tie.
That night, as he slept,
I opened his folder.
He had colored the earmuffs red,
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