Actually, I wanted to write a childhood memory.
A little, sweet moment showing the carefree souls of kids making the most of life.
That would lift my spirit up, I thought.
So, I went into my memory cellar and recalled a spring day that I climbed to a tree with my best friend. The weather was beautiful, and after the picnic that we had with our parents, our bellies were full, our faces looked content. We were happy.
Then, I remembered another day. When I was 7 or 8, it was ‘Şeker Bayramı’- Candy Fest.
A holiday we celebrate after Ramadan is when kids would go out knocking on neighbors’ doors to collect candy, or if you are lucky; money. So as I was knocking on doors with my cute outfit, the old man living across our apartment gave me 50 liras.
I could write about that, I thought. After all, holding that huge amount of money as a kid,
I was happy; thinking about all the candies, and chips I could buy with it.
But, my memory has always been a slippery slope. I don’t have much in my mind to recall. There are only shattered moments glued together by the pictures that I saw later in life. Like when my friend and I were sitting on a tree as the spring sun was shining on our smiling faces... To be honest, I don’t remember my hands touching the bark of that tree. Or how we came there. Or where we went after. Everything I remember was from the photograph that I saw later.
Maybe I should make up the rest of the details, I thought. But besides I wanted it to be truthful, I also know what happened after.
My best friend’s mother had a stroke a few years later. They had to move to another city, so I haven’t seen her again for years. That knowledge darkened my fake happy memory.
I decided to pass it.
Or how that old man gave me 50 liras, knocked on our door a few minutes later, and told me to give the money back, saying: “It was supposed to be for my grandchild."
I’ve realized this assignment -which I gave myself to remember the happy moments while dealing with this difficult time- was actually giving me more anxiety.
I said “Fuck it. I’m not going to do it.”
So, I went for a walk.
It was the first night of April.
The streets were ghosted. But I didn’t feel alone or wasn’t scared thinking about the virus that locking people in their houses, shaking life as we know of from its core.
Instead, in my ear, Georges Delerue’s song ‘King of Hearts Le Repos’ was playing, and I was immersed in the now.
Go on.
Play the song.
I’ll wait.
My nose felt cold. In the air, there was the sweet smell of spring.
The lack of automobiles gave flowers a chance to diffuse their delicious smells into their surroundings. The orange-colored street lights were beaming over the trees. Some were bloomed already, showing off their white buds. Some not. The whole scenery looked like a moment from a fairy tale. Maybe it was always like that, but I was there for the first time to acknowledge its beauty. Breathing the overlooked simple magic of life.
My steps got lighter. I wasn’t even walking, it felt like I was floating. Like in a dream, but I felt more awake than ever.
I passed many houses. Their warm lights invited me to be a guest in their lives for a few seconds. On the second floor of a classical Amsterdam building, I saw a man sitting next to the window. He was playing guitar. His eyes were closed, and his mouth was open, very much living the song he was singing. On the couch, a young woman was sitting. The blue light coming from the screen was illuminating her face.
I walked more.
I thought about all the moments that I waited for. The pictures that I created in my mind’s eyes. The dreams that I chased. All those times I was saying “Once I have this, once I have that, then I’ll be happy.” Those ‘this’ and ‘that’ have changed throughout my life, but the unfulfillment was always there, hanging like a dark cloud over my head, shadowing my precious joyful moments by asking “What next? Now what? Is that all there is?”
I shook the thoughts out of my head and walked more.
A dog and his owner were playing at Museumplein’s empty field. I stopped to watch the human throwing the stick, and the dog was running after it, his tongue was dangling out of his mouth. The dog would bring the stick, and the human would throw it again, her head was down, her eyes glued to her phone. But the dog didn’t care that the game was one-sided. Each time he ran after the stick with joy and excitement.
I inhaled the fresh smell of grass and exhaled my used, warm breath. I walked more.
Our apartment sits next to a canal. On the other side of the canal, there would stand prostitutes under red lights, and among them, men would walk around like sad vultures. None of them are there anymore. Since they were gone, however, many ducks are walking around, inhabiting the grey pavements with their graceful feathered bodies, leaving behind their white shit like a trail.
My eyes caught a white duck in the dark. Big one. Looking at the canal. Standing. Doing whatever ducks do. A few steps ahead, a man was holding a beer swinging side to side.
A drunk. He recognized the duck. First called the duck to his side with his hand. The duck didn’t move. Then the man made a noise “Ciyuciyu!” His raspy voice echoed in the neighborhood. The duck walked for a few steps toward him and then stopped. I didn’t understand what ‘ciyuciyu’ meant. But of course, I don’t speak duck. The man, looking content, sat next to the duck. Then the two looked at the canal; the duck and the drunk.
I sighed with peace and went home.
I couldn’t pull out a happy childhood memory that would give you a warm feeling for a few seconds- one can always hope.
My point is… I don’t know what my point is.
But you know what they say: “Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.”
I agree. But I also want to add “Happiness is in the heart of the seeker.”
If you seek, you can find it anywhere. You can find it on the stage of ITA dancing with your new friends, you can find it in the smell of newly cut grass, a stick with bite marks, or gray pavement covered with white duck shit.
Right?