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The Persian Bath H MICHELLE KOUKHAB When the sumac berries are as ripe as sunrise we bathe at the Hammam-e umumy, a purple dome, skylit, where ladies talk of marriage and a suitor’s wishes to engage. My mother brings romaine lettuce and vinegar syrup—sekanjebin—to eat with pomegranate seeds and salt. In the Sarbineh, we change our clothes, stretch, massage, scrub our legs with kiseh, the wool rough like sandpaper against our skin. Sisters wrap my mother’s waist with egg yolk and chick-pea paste. In the bath, more hands spread powder paste and oil.We celebrate the healthy birth and drink rosewater with basil. In America, we shower babies with presents, celebrate in anticipation. Blue for boys, girls wear pink. I can have children, but no healing ceremony. In my healing of parts below the navel, I can only spread glue with tongue depressors. This gap opens sometimes between the places we are born, and the places that we live. 100 MICHELLE KOUKHAB ...

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