When the Persimmons Grew

Immobile in a home where the sands of time fall to the rhythm of the rural Azerbaijani sounds a mother waits for her son When he arrives their conversations circle around existential questions and news from afar Unrest cloaks the world outside Mother and son grow closer silence melts into words and life springs between them The son leaves and winter settles in to the foreveroutdated house in which temporalities blurs and past and present beat to the rhythm of the same clock