As the call to prayer echoed through the air, two dark-haired Syrian children heard a phrase they couldn't quite understand:
"Fate is fate, there's no escaping it."
The dark-haired children intertwined their pinkies, just like yesterday and today.
Last night, I put on my coat and walked towards Aunt Asiye's shanty. Her house was a dilapidated shack, but it had a view of Heybeliada and Kınalıada. We had visited this place the first day we moved to the last stop. This time, it was a bit different. There was no child sitting on the rock in front of the house.
Aunt Asiye and my mother were drinking coffee by the door. When she saw me, Aunt Asiye smiled and said:
"Welcome, brother-in-law."
"Just like Memet," said Gülo.
Fifteen years ago, a chair was pulled out for my father to sit on. Now, the same chair was pulled out for me. The coffee was not missing its foam.
The sky was cloudy, and the stars seemed to have descended to earth. Skyscrapers and streetlights were visible on the horizon by the shore. Aunt Asiye, with the songs I remembered from my childhood, caressed the flowers in front of the shanty. I dove into the lakes like a green duck. Her voice wavered in my ears, a few Kurdish-Turkish phrases:
"...Gıje, Çelik’s wife..."
"...Her wife also drank..."
"...Oh, mother, oh..."
"...I can't get up, gran gran, and go..."
"...What can she do, Gülo, everyone has their own sorrows..."
Aunt Asiye put her two white chickens in the coal shed. We returned to our own coop.
We cracked open the salted sunflower seeds we bought from Kanat, the neighborhood grocer, last week. We fell asleep to the sound of the cracking. Crack-crack...
We woke up to the sound of the morning call to prayer. The imam recited a funeral announcement as a finishing touch:
"Ali Koyun’s son, Nurettin Koyun, also known as Kanat, from Kevenler village, Imranlı district, Sivas province, has passed away."
We were shocked. We pressed the salted sunflower seeds into our wounds. The announcement was repeated:
"Ali Koyun’s son, Nurettin Koyun, also known as Kanat, from Kevenler village, Imranlı district, Sivas province, has passed away."
We looked down.
"So his name was Nurettin," we said.
That day, no child in the neighborhood bought a plastic ball. The chip bags were left untouched. Everyone ate yesterday's bread.
That afternoon, at five o'clock, everyone gathered in front of the grocery store to watch the funeral car pass by.
Everyone on Mesut Street thought about death. They drank a glass of water for their tears.
Crack!
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