Their plump, tender and succulent, painted our legs. She boiled the juice and the ambrosial aroma of the boiling tomatoes wafted within the backyard. The thickening tomato juice boiled over the edges of the recent cauldron, smearing the tiles of the terrace. When my grandmother eliminated the gasoline range, a hanging corona of fiery crimson drops of paste remained on the tiles. I believed these crimson coronas have been the rationale they named my grandparents’ avenue “the Solar Avenue”
How I want I may enter that backyard yet one more time to see these fiery rings. In 2018 I plan a return journey. However, my mom tells me — earlier than I am going again — that Solar Avenue is closed to the general public. No one is aware of what has occurred to that home because the Islamic authorities took it from us.