Baba Joon. My grandfather. He was my favourite relative of all my family and we had always been close. He lived in Iran so it was hard to stay in get together yet he tried his hardest to come to England as practically as possible to watch his ?little angel? grow up into a woman. He would lecture me on which work force would be worthy for me which I always laughed at as it ended up being somebody Iranian and he would treat me like the six year old large I was. I would sit on his lap and contemplate in wonder as he would tell me active his old school shenanigans and his incredible yet terrifying season during the war. He was my hero and protector. The last I remember of him was his grinning, the grinning that would show such admiration in what I was give tongue to and that he treasured me. I was his troublesome little girl. That smile is what will remain in my memory forever. It was the last matter I saw of him.
A few years ago, I travelled to Iran for the first time. I was a hyperactive xi year old, jumping for joy when I found stunned that my father and I were going to Iran to visit my beloved grandfather, who I hadn?t seen since my seventh birthday.
My father, however, wasn?t as eager as I was to go to Iran. He put on a front that he was elated although I knew him well equal to know he wasn?t. Shouldn?t he be happy that he could see the man who has influenced his life in so many ways for the first time in four years? I couldn?t put my finger on what it could be but I could sense it wasn?t going...
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