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But now, with the scant elm trees remaining in the corners, and the burning sun scorching the gravestones, the Parrot Garden is nothing but a wistful name. I find my grandfather’s grave, a flat granite stone at the eastern corner of the cemetery where many respectful businessmen from Tehran’s Bazaar are buried. He owned a glaziery in the bazaar, and made many mirror artworks in his workshop. I fetch some water from the ablution pool and wash the hot stone with my hand. The epitaph emerges letter by letter: Here, the resting place of a respectful Hajj pilgrim, a beloved father and husband. I lost this man 20 years ago. The man who shaped my childhood imaginat.
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