Child; He thought that the painting of Zeus, which he saw among the postcards of his father, belonged to a very old man, and that age could only be reached as a result of an incredibly long process. He had not taken his mind then, the incredible length of time. He thought he was approaching the end of his life, Zeus. He was still at the beginning of everything. He was living his firsts.
Young man; Years later, when he saw the same picture, he thought that Zeus was in middle age. Then he threw the picture into a corner, carelessly. He had so many years in front of him, and just because of this he was delaying everything, including loving, young man. But unfortunately, while he was putting everything off, he was hardly aware that he was living face-to-face with death. Or he was aware but helpless. Because he thought that living face to face with death was the only way out - or escape -.
And me; The week my father died, when I saw the same postcard while looking at the pictures left by him, I realized that Zeus was a relatively young person, and even when he got a little older, his lines would resemble mine.
In a few years, I think I will think that the same Zeus was too immature to know life well enough.
Did I write these articles now or used to be?
Did I think while writing, or did I put my mind to writing while I was alive?
Did I live this way? Or did I decorate and change it, create a brand new bundle of memories?
How much is real?
It is unnecessary to know this, perhaps ...
We harbor different people with the same identity in our bodies over the years.
The boy, the young man and me.
Am they all "I"?
The most beautiful of green, my aunt's eyes
Like a pair of emerald stones glowing in the dark.
My mother's moire matches with her name
It's like a newborn day hiding the blacks
Filizcik is always sad, in sepia paintings
As if he looked to eternity, knowing his destiny
Those who hit the boards, come true
Yıldız, Gündüz and Filiz; When you walk on the Boulevard
A time like a fairy tale, before the "Revolutions".
When you put on wings with tuberculosis, destiny, Filizcik, what about the six ... He flew hastily, to the heaven of sister tales. My mother is just seventeen. Can a young sapling fall in love with life? He came out that day, moreover, from the "maturity test" opened by the Maarif.
My grandfather; puzzled, exhausted, "My daughter is cold." He said, “He could not go to a warm bed again for a lifetime.
My grandmother is desperate, two curls in her hand. He looks, smells his hair, touches his strands ...
My mother, my aunt as if stone, they kept delirious,
"Gone, the youngest brother. We're missing from now on."
She had eye surgery this morning, my beautiful-eyed mother.
"Shall we numb it?" the doctor asked
"Thank you." said. "I do not want."
"But it hurts."
"Is it important, it will pass."
And he spilled for the first time, to his children. Perhaps to the surprise of the drugs he was taking. Fifty-five years later.
"Water was taken from the backbone." said.
Then he stopped and swallowed. He couldn't speak for a moment. Her beautiful eyes filled.
"The nurse is also devastated. He's hurting himself. But he has to, he will do it. Needle as much as an arm in his hand. The same rush every morning. The same ordeal every morning. He would endure with his life and comfort us.
'Please, my sister,' she would say, 'It doesn't hurt, don't cry. It burns if you are sad, my dear. Then I can't stand it. Then I will cry too. '
I smell my pupils, I kiss, I cannot cut back. My age flows into me. I hold on, I can't cry.
One night I asked God
"When I am in pain, my brother, can I ever have the right to live my own pain?"
God didn't answer. Either I could not make it heard, or his answer was hidden in his silence. I ... that day, this day ... if it hurts ... my brother comes to mind.
What is this? I'll let go of my pain. "
The doctor asked again, "Shall we numb it?" he.
"Doesn't want." I said for my mother.
"We'll take care of it."
My eyes in the mirror.
"Whose hair is this?"
"Where did you get them?"
“Out of the box. “
“The box in the ballot box. There are chests in the small room ... "
"Why are you messing up the whole place?"
"Put it back quickly."
"I asked who?"
"Put it back."
"Your little daughter or?"
Grandma doesn't answer.
He walks to his seat in front of the window.
Chasing the child ...
“When did you say he died? Not before I was born? He was younger than me but ... Then why do I call it an aunt? "
Grandmother is speechless, unresponsive, looking out.
Golden curls in the hands of the child, fading utterly.
"I was just curious about your dusty stuff. You love even two strands of hair more than I do!"
The mixed voices of the sellers in the market place humming at home ..
And sighs of your grandmother.
**** **** ****
The small chest room is pitch black.
The kid inside.
He is sitting cross-legged in front of the room door.
He just brought meatballs on a tray.
"Look, if you don't eat it, it won't go down my throat either."
"Look, I'll cry, but ..."
“I leave the tray beside the door. You can buy it whenever you want. "
Gogo water comes next.
It does not sound.
"Look what your uncle Reşat sent to you."
He's just listening.
"Two purring kitties."
"Ok. Thank you. I'll see later."
"So I bought you two packs of candy, on the way. Frutips with Mintips. Whatever you like ..."
He doesn't answer again, boy. In the narrow room, he is sitting with his back against the grandfather's chest, with his feet on the door so that they cannot open it.
Gogo is also desperate, returning to the hall.
Working at Sümerbank Gogo's husband, Uncle Reşat. They were very old friends from their grandmother and grandfather's house on Sakarya Street.
Uncle Reşat has a coal-fired workshop in the backyard of their house. He makes various kinds of dolls, clowns, cats and dogs figurines out of wood, on the carpenter workbench he set up. Then they paint those trinkets with their two daughters and sons. When it is finished, he leaves it to a familiar souvenir shop in Sıhhiye for sale.
"The scramble goes." Gogo once said.
When he heard these, he said, "I wish I could be like Uncle Reşat when I grow up. If I made puppets and dolls on my counter." the boy thought, in his mind.
Uncle Reşat is also keen on electronics. Every job comes to hand. What has he done? In fact, since entering the installment would be a burden, he had collected the necessary materials from right to left, from the wire locker, and made a working refrigerator for his wife. Edison blessed.
The tray is still where the doctor left it. Meatballs to cool. Its smell comes to your nose. It craves, but does not give up.
"There is Albanian stubbornness in this. The same grandfather."
This is not taken by his grandmother. He likes to be compared to his grandfather he has never seen.
He was very angry when he told his puppet that he wanted to make a beard by cutting a lock of hair he found. Actually, he had no intention of cutting it up ... Just to attract attention.
Scissors in his hand, he waited minutes for someone to notice, and he finally succeeded.
The scissors and hair were grabbed from the boy's hand, screaming and frantically. While he was shouting, shouting and shouting, after all, the boy was offended by everyone in the house and closed himself in the ballot box.
Granny, Nono, Gogo, and cicianne; They are talking in the back room, sitting at the dining table next to the stove.
"What beautiful hair she has." says Nono.
He is caressing his curls now, the child thinks as he listens to the voices coming from inside.
"We took it to the photographer a week before his death, so we could take a final picture of it. Do you remember, sister?"
“We cut her curls as she went into surgery. That's why we couldn't tie his favorite dried rose ribbons. "Smile my daughter." said the photographer. Filizcik did not understand. He just stared at the man. "Smile baby." Sprout door wall. Then I said he didn't hear. "
"You said tuberculosis. The microbe got into your brain.
"He couldn't help himself, the photographer Etem. He began to cry to the Kat katiler.
“That photo was on display for years,” says Gogo. “We passed by him in the mornings to see it. It was like waving at us from there. "
The name "Gogo" was nicknamed by Filiz's aunt at the time. Then that nickname settled. Everyone in the family says "Gogo" to Aunt Guzin.
He listens to the sounds coming from the hall, full attention.
"We used to wave to him too."
"We used to talk too .."
“Then one day we took a look, the changed photo in the window. Like our lives.
"It's been fourteen years."
"Time passes quickly. The baby of our eyes flew away. Only his hair remained."
"Mischievous! He's messing up everywhere! And he's harmful! If I hadn't seen it, he would cut his dear hair in an eyebrow."
Then their voices cut off. You can only hear the sigh, from the dark chest room, and the crackling of the firewood in the stove.
The boy is crouching in front of the trunk, closing his mouth tightly with his tiny hands.
"I'm sorry, Aunt Filiz. I'm very sorry."
"Why don't you come more often?"
"I have jobs, grandma."
"But I miss you so much."
"I told you I have work."
"Last night my heart was stuck. I couldn't breathe. I thought I was dying."
Suddenly he whispers as if giving secret:
"You are curious. Take them."
I don't understand what you're talking about. I look at your face.
"Photos. Then grandfather's pen, diploma, robe. All of them in your aunt's storage. But the most important photos. Take them. Please. Look at them occasionally. Then you will show them ahead. Look, you call this my grandmother. You call this my grandfather. You tell them."
"Where's that box, grandma?"
"There was a small box covered with pale red velvet in the chest. My Aunt Filiz's hair was in it. It was tied with dried rose ribbons. You were very angry when I tried to cut it ..."
His eyes are suddenly drenched.
"Where's that box?"
Silent, thoughtful, sighing.
"But you are not listening to me, grandmother? .."
"Will you have those pictures, baby?"
“Yes, grandma. I get."
"I'll also ask for something from you. But it will stay between us. Promise?"
"It hurts a lot. When it comes again, can you bring a little bit? But not too much. Just a slice. Or never mind. If your mother sees it, it will be sad."
"Tell me what you want."
T ut from our childhood have hands
The bundle is empty, tired,
He walks to the stars.
Time lasts, the tale stops
Pale, velvet-lined boxes in the back
The "motherships" also die.
Each sprinkled a pinch of their souls on my soul.
May their places be heaven.
(From my short stories titled "Child, Young Man and Me")