My father says we need to go, but I cling to my brother harder, scared because the hurt in my chest is far more severe than anything I have felt before. Perhaps this is the prelude to some kind of death I do not yet have the language to articulate. My brother puts his arms around me and hugs me back as I cry. I cry as I have never cried before. I cry as I never will again.
Finally, even though I am not ready, my brother pulls away. He tries to wipe my tears but more keep falling. He attempts a smile and fails. His eyes are wet too.
“I will look after your flowers,” he says. “Your hibiscus flowers. I will take care of them.”
I blink hard and nod. “I will come back,” I promise. I might not be the same person when I do, and my family will change with time, but one thing will always remain the same no matter what: This place is, and always will be, home.
“We will be waiting,” he says, and lets go.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Reader,
My parents and I moved to Canada from Fiji in August 2001. I was seventeen years old and not at all willing to leave behind my entire life and everyone I knew. In Fiji, we lived on a sugarcane farm in a small village called Vitogo. In “All the Colors of Goodbye,” I give you a fictionalized version of what my goodbyes looked like.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nafiza Azad is a self-identified island girl. She has hurricanes in her blood and dreams of a time she can exist solely on mangoes and pineapple. Born in Lautoka, Fiji, she currently resides in BC, Canada, where she reads too many books, watches too many Kdramas and writes stories about girls taking over the world. Her debut YA fantasy, The Candle and the Flame, was released by Scholastic in 2019.
THE WEDDING
Sara Farizan
“You look wonderful, Darya,” Mom said as she pushed back my shoulders so that I would stand up straight. She was always lecturing me about my posture and how important it was that I carry myself like a lady. For the sake of the family and the photos that would be taken of us, I was wearing a dress to my cousin Shayla’s wedding. I still hadn’t quite figured out how to be comfortable with, as my mom would say, my “burgeoning womanhood.” I felt like a neon-pink sausage, waddling around in high heels that squeezed my feet. I could feel a blister forming on my pinkie toe already.
“I still can’t believe you’re wearing this,” my sister Tara said, pointing her phone in my direction. I didn’t smile for the photo, but she was grinning from ear to ear. Tara liked to glam up, put on makeup, wear dresses, and today she’d gone all the way with a lavender dress and popping bright-red lipstick. She looked good. She did it for herself and not for anyone else’s approval, but it wasn’t really my bag nor did I think it ever would be.
“If you put that online, I will never forgive you,” I said through gritted teeth. The most I did in the grooming department was tweeze my eyebrows, and even that could be dangerous. Sometimes they were uneven or too thin, as I never knew when to stop plucking. Lately, I’d let them grow and do their own thing.
“Look at my beautiful daughters,” Dad said, approaching us in the hotel lobby. He was in good spirits but had dark circles under his eyes. He’d done most of the driving from Boston to Montreal the day before, and we’d arrived later than the GPS had said we would. So far, Montreal felt like Europe and North America had gotten together and had a baby that wore a lot of denim and liked hockey. This was, of course, a generalization as I’d been in the country for less than twenty-four hours, but most people at the hotel had been very friendly and polite, so that stereotype about Canadians seemed to hold up.
Dr. Hamid Sadeghi, my grandfather, stood beside my dad, a little shorter and more fragile than his son, whom he once towered over. My grandfather looked handsome in a navy blue suit. His eyes were wide, and he reminded me of a kid who was about to meet Mickey Mouse at Disney World.
“Darya,” Grandfather said. “You look...”
“Better than usual. I know.” I was dressed like this at the sofreh aghd, the wedding ceremony, but I guess my being gussied up was still a shock to my family. What did I normally look like, to warrant this kind of enthusiasm? I mean, I usually wore jeans and a T-shirt, but it wasn’t like I dressed only in burlap sacks or anything.
“No. You don’t look happy,” he said. “You don’t have to wear that if you don’t want to.”
I loved him so much I thought my heart might burst.
“She can’t show up to the reception in a T-shirt. What would everyone say?” Mom was fussing with a blow-dried piece of my hair that was out of place. She’d spent most of the morning tugging at my hair with a flat iron to make sure I was as presentable as possible. My hair was thick and curly, which might look good on other people, but I always forgot to use the fancy leave-in conditioner Mom bought me. My hair without conditioner gave me a Cousin Itt from the Addams family quality. It was yet another way I managed to disappoint her.
“Yes, we wouldn’t want the Iowans and Iranians we’ll probably hardly ever see again to start talking about Darya’s fashion choices,” Tara muttered. “How will we sleep at night?”
“Don’t be fresh,” Mom said to Tara. She let go of my hair and looked at me like I was a Wendy’s Spicy Chicken Sandwich when she had ordered coq au vin from a fancy French restaurant. Not what she’d had in mind, but satisfactory. “Shall we go?”
Tara, Mom, and Dad walked ahead to find the ballroom. I trailed behind with Grandfather and held his hand.
“When did you grow up?” Grandfather asked me.
“I didn’t. It’s these shoes,” I replied.
“It’s not the shoes,” he said. “Your older sister always talks back to your mother. But you don’t. You’re sophisticated.”
I laughed a little. Sophisticated wasn’t a word I would associate with myself, considering Cap’n Crunch Berries was my breakfast of choice and I still wore Batgirl pajama bottoms to bed. “Are you excited?”
He nodded. “I want to make sure my brother and I have time together,” he said. “He wasn’t at the ceremony. I’ve talked to him on the phone, but the last time I went to visit him in Iran was so long ago. Maybe this is the last time we’ll see each other. I don’t know.” That was the reason the bride and groom were having their wedding in Canada—so that my great-uncle and his wife could attend. Travel bans really put a damper on festive occasions. It was why I wasn’t putting up a stink about what I was wearing. I squeezed his hand.
I wanted him to have all the time in the world.
A crowd of well-dressed wedding guests were mingling in front of a table outside the ballroom. I saw Dad hugging his sister, my aunt Mahnaz, who was wearing a maybe-not-super-age-appropriate red dress. I thought she wanted to make a big splash this weekend. She’d been waiting for her only daughter, Shayla, to get married for a long time. Aunt Mahnaz would complain to my dad on the phone about how worried she was that Shayla might be single forever, which to me hadn’t sounded bad at all. Now that Shayla had finally found a husband, Aunt Mahnaz was going all the way with an extravagant wedding, no matter what country it had to be held in.