Eshrat Kordary Pishevar. January 24, 1945-December 11,2024

My Mother, Eshrat

When I think of my mother’s face,

I remember it as the first face I ever saw.

Newly opened eyes gazing into a face imbued with love,

A smile filled with wonder,

The first kiss from her lips,

Tenderly kissing away every injury, tear, and pain,

And celebrating joys with kisses on my cheeks.

Those almond-shaped, light Persian brown eyes,

The ones that held my baby stare,

Trying to fathom what I was seeing,

Not yet understanding but feeling—

All the love beaming from her beautiful eyes.

At 29, she was radiant,

A synthesis of Jackie O and Elizabeth Taylor.

Just a few years later, in 1977,

We were in America.

She was 31, holding my hand

As we walked through a field of yellow buttercup flowers,

Her almond eyes looking down at me,

The sun beaming through her brown hair.

I told her on her sickbed at 79:

“Even at 3 years old, I knew I was looking

At the most beautiful and loving mother in the world.”

Her beauty aged gracefully,

From the 34-year-old mother facing the Islamic Revolution,

To the woman who lost her nation,

Separated from her husband—on Khomeini’s execution list.

She kept a stiff upper lip,

Guiding us through fear and chaos with strength.

Ten months of hiding,

Two years apart,

And nights filled with bombs falling over Tehran.

Even in the basement,

Her face showed no fear.

I studied her face, memorized her chin dimples

That scrunched into a little ball when she focused.

Oh, her laugh!

Her ecstatic shriek of joy

Was infectious,

Her smile like a joyous feminine Buddha.

Her laughter uplifted everyone.

Her face is imprinted on my soul.

Even at almost 80, she radiated nobility,

Grace, dignity, and strength.

She suffered silently,

Undoubtedly sobbing in private

So we would not see.

Yet she always cooked the most magnificent dinners,

Celebrated our birthdays with handmade decorations,

And filled our home with beautiful plants,

Turning concrete towers into a true sanctuary.

She gave her entire life force to us,

Her beloved family.

Now, her legacy continues in her grandchildren—

Each carrying her traits, her features:

Her almond-shaped eyes,

Her luminous skin,

Her poetic soul,

And her joyous laughter.

She loved Cyrus deeply,

Admiring his strength and drive.

She instilled in Darya

Her confidence, grace, and ambition.

Her spirit echoes in her great-granddaughter,

Aurora Eshrat, her namesake,

And in all her progeny.

She never rested, always creating,

Knitting for her grandchildren,

Tending her beloved plants,

Making endless trips to the kitchen.

She was a woman on a mission,

A Manifesting Goddess

Who made us all believe we could achieve anything.

She was my first investor,

Secretly buying my computer to help me start my first company.

She filled me with so much love

That I told her on her sickbed:

“Maman, chekar kardi beh man?

Oonghad eshgh dadee ke man heech vaght khasteh nemeesham.”

(“Mother, what did you do to me?

You gave me so much love

That I have an endless supply,

Fueling me without exhaustion.”)

Her dreams were in vivid color,

Her love transporting us to a future

Where we knew we were loved,

Where we knew we would succeed,

Because she believed in us.

Maman Joon,

I will love you until the last second of my life.

I will honor you always.

Your name is etched on my lips forever.

You deserve monuments for the masterpiece of your love.

Merci.

Roohtoh boos meekonam.

Barayeh ayandeh.

(I kiss your soul forever, for the future.)

When I die, the last image I will see

Is your face in that field of buttercup flowers.

The golden sun shining through your hair,

Your almond-shaped eyes looking at me,

Your smile—a smile more beautiful and meaningful

Than Mona Lisa’s.

You were the first and last face I will ever see.

- Shervin Pishevar