Mothballs and Wool~ By Mira Martin-Parker

I’d spend hours jumping from one stack of carpets to the next. I’d leap from the six by nines to the ten by eights and then over to the twelve by tens. At the end of the day, my knees would be bright red from rubbing against the scratchy camel hair fringes. I’d play hopscotch in the large black octagons in the Afghan rugs, roar at the awkward lions in the Persian rugs, count the stars in the Turkish kilims, and make chirping sounds at the birds in the branches of the tree of life carpets. The diamond patterns and zigzags woven in the Gabbehs provided perfect tracks for my glass marbles. Smack, smack, smack they went as they rolled off the edge of the stacks and hit the red painted cement floor. Soon a customer would come in and dad would get down on his knees and begin flipping over the corner of one of the piles, describing each piece as he went along. This one here is a Shiraz, and this a Tabriz, over here, this is a Baluch, and this beauty is an Isfahan. I’d continue jumping along as he showed off his merchandise. Soon he’d head over to his glass-topped desk and sit down with the client. He’d take out a pouch of Top tobacco, roll himself a cigarette, and begin telling stories of his travels throughout the Middle East. All the while, I’d be jumping from stack to stack, chirping and roaring, and flapping my arms about as if they were wings, flying through the air, inhaling the heavy smell of mothballs and wool.

Author Bio:
Mira Martin-Parker is completing an MFA in creative writing at San Francisco State University. Her work has appeared in various publications, including the Istanbul Literary Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Mythium, and Zyzzyva.