THE FAINT TASTE OF CARDAMOM IN A STAINED THERMOS

Dear Delyara, It is 1:15 AM, and I am sitting with my hands wrapped around the lid of an old thermos I brought from home. My mother used to crush cardamom pods into the tea leaves back in Tehran, a scent so thick it would wrap around the entire courtyard on a Friday afternoon. Tonight, I tried to replicate it in this concrete guardroom using a cheap electric kettle and a plastic spoon. The taste isn't quite right—the water here is too hard, or maybe the air in this industrial park is just too sterile—but if I close my eyes while the steam hits my face, I can almost block out the harsh fluorescent glare above my head. For just a few seconds, I am not a security officer tracking heavy freight logistics in England; I am a boy sitting on a woven rug under a pomegranate tree, listening to the soft murmur of Farsi from the kitchen window.