Nearly two and a half years ago, I had a call from my hometown. It said I should come home to my mum. It said she is very sick. It may be the last opportunity…
Last opportunities, lost possibilities, fears that we can never truly get back from without a scar.
I’m living in the farthest land to my hometown, Istanbul. New Zealand is far far away in the corner of the world. I held onto minutes. Minutes like hours. As I counted one by one; for a while, for whole a lot while; I went back home to my mum. That’s when I learned that the length of “for a while” can’t be measured. At least by the person who’s in the waiting.
My mum; her name is Elcin. It means cicada. Her singing never stops. She takes the darkest silence of the night and creates a symphony of it. She is full of life, loves to experience everything, to the very edges that sometimes she get lost in the moment to find herself again and again.
After her visit to Cuba, she got sick. First, she thought it was a common cold, turned out to be fungal pneumonia. Untreated for days, the sickness carried her to the ICU corner. The whole family, three of us, my brother and I at the hospital corridors and my mum behind doors; we fought.