Sufi Grace

By Mira Martin-Parker

We used to eat sitting cross-legged on the floor around a brass Turkish tray, holding hands while dad said grace. Dad took this mealtime ritual very seriously. He sat straight, closed his eyes, and led us in prayer.

Oh thou the sustainer of our bodies, hearts, and souls,

There were certain things always present at our table. Glasses of Coca Cola and ice with lunch and dinner. A tub of whipped sweet butter with breakfast, and sometimes dinner too, if we had fresh barbari bread. At dinner there was always a pot of white rice with tadig and a salad made of chopped iceberg lettuce and tomatoes.

bless all that we receive

Dad’s favorite meal was baked chicken. He had a special way of preparing it—rinsed, salted, placed whole in a baking dish, then surrounded with carrots, potatoes, onions, and celery. He cooked it for hours at a low temperature; he liked it best when the meat fell right off the bone. I suppose it was a sort of chicken stew, cooked in the oven, with the bones left in.

in thankfulness

There was also always a box of Kleenex tissue nearby, which we used instead of napkins. And underneath us there were brightly colored Persian tribal rugs, made of scratchy camel hair and wool. Hanging on the wall there would be a lion rug, or a Gabbeh with a diamond or zigzag pattern, our house was always full of Persian tribal rugs.

until the very end.

Leaning against the shelf, next to dad, was grandpa’s deer rifle. It was an old gun, with brown leather fringe sewn over the casing. “Every gun is loaded,” dad would say, whenever we asked if there were bullets in it. “Remember that, every gun is loaded.”

Jai Baba

Mira Martin-Parker earned 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. Her collection of short stories, The Carpet Merchant’s Daughter, won the 2013 Five [Quarterly] e-chapbook competition.