on holding rose water
By beyza ozer
My family never stopped migrating. We fight
so hard. With each other and ourselves. Don’t
talk about that. Not now. There is never
a good time and I learn that songs are the only
moments that last forever. But my mother
always brings me the instant coffee my
dede drank before he died. She wraps it
so carefully in a plastic bag from the market
that we go to when Caddebostan feels unreachable.
We don’t talk about that. Or the grief.
Or my short hair. I want to know what
dede would have said. I want to know that he
can feel the warm wind too if he tried.
We fight so hard. We open the tops of
each other’s heads and watch the birds
fly out. We still don’t talk about my dede.
My Thursday, another not-too-hot August day, was perfect for open doors and bird-watching. I talked to my oldest niece, sister of niece who lived with us, which was lovely, and I talked to both my kids since older son finally got a strep test (no results yet) and younger son got the good news that Amazon employees can keep working from home at least through January.
We took a walk to enjoy the weather and the neighborhood bunnies, ate my leftover Thai curry from lunch with Alice plus some Vietnamese (fake) beef and peanut noodles for dinner, and watched some of the Hall of Fame Game and Olympics around my Thursday night fangirl Zoom chat. Here are some of Homestead Farm's barnyard animals from last weekend: