My father came to the United States in his 20s chasing his idea of an American dream. He has been here longer than the country he was born in. He was never able to attend his parents’ funerals, but he was able to put flowers on their graves years later.

I can tell he misses his country. I know he misses his family and it occurs for him every other week. Emails, texting, and phone calls are not enough for him. He tries to visit them every so many years, but always heads back home to the United States.

Growing up, my sister and I would listen to the stories about his siblings and their children. I never acknowledge them to be part of my family, because the distance is just too much — 6,713 miles too much. I only thought of them as characters in my father’s stories. The distance made them make-believe.

However, this past summer, those who I thought to be make-believe became real. I gained two aunts, two cousins, one second cousin, and a multitude of beautiful memories.

This was also the summer when I understood what the Ingredients of life really were.

It all started as I stood in the kitchen with my sister, studying our newly acquainted family members. That night I wrote in my journal.

Here is what I wrote:

The most beautiful moment in life is experiencing things that you know will not last forever.

It is intimate.

It is warming.

And it is heartbreaking.

To understand what is happening before it is too late is just as painful as not knowing what you have until it's gone.

Some of us experienced this.

Many of us heard about it.

However, when you, yourself, undergo this, it'll change your life forever.

Recently I've experienced this. I didn't know what was happening until I looked into my sister's eyes.

We sat far from those who ignited the moment.

We watched them laugh around the kitchen table, interacting with one another in a foreign language.

Our father was excited and more alive. With a smile on his face that showed all his freshly cleaned teeth for the special occasion.

They spoke loudly, exchanging: excuse me’s, thank you’s, and you're welcomes.

My sister turned to me with tears in her eyes, which reflected my own.

I saw our shared happiness.

I saw shared excitement.

And I saw shared sorrow.

Sorrow for what we were missing.

Sorrow for what we never had.

Sorrow for what we cannot hold on to.

For what we were experiencing was intangible, because those beautiful moments are moments that will turn into memories.

And memories will fade over time.

But I will make this promise.

I will remember their smiles: each of their teeth different shapes and shades.

I will remember their laughter: some loud, some soft, some childish, but mostly loud.

I will remember the food they made that filled the air with smells of copious amounts Persian spices, garlic, and lemons.

I will remember playing cards and drinking tea.

I will remember saying sobh be kheyr and shab be kheyr, evey day and every night.

At that I'll say: I will remember those memories even when they turn to fragments, or faint memories.

Likewise to the memories I have of my father's mother, my grandmother. My memory consists of her holding my hand, touching each of my fingers, and tickling the palm of my hand, saying "lili lili hozak."

Even though memories fade to fragments, memories never truly fade.

They were intimate.

They were warming.

And they were heartbreaking.

However, we've experienced it.

Changing those who were apart of that everlasting moment.

It's compassion.

It's laughter.

It's smells.

It's taste.

It's beauty.

And I believe these are the ingredients that allow us to experience life's beautiful moments.