I wrote a piece two years ago. As I was writing it, I felt the lightness of being content with m choices, instead of feeling the pain of fooling myself with those ‘one day I’ll do it,’ promises. Lucky me!
But now I feel heavy with the knowledge that I will never get to speak with a person whose door I thought I would knock on one day to speak about life, as much as she remembered, for hours on end. Our dear neighbor Müzeyyen, who had been suffering from Alzheimer’s, has passed away before I had a chance to visit her. As I spoke of what life is and what it isn’t, I fell into the same trap. Every time we bumped into each other at the entrance of the building and smiled at one another, I told myself I would visit her “one day”. Maybe she wasn’t going to hear the door, maybe she wasn’t going to open it even if she heard it, maybe she wasn’t going to recognize me even if she opened it. But I would have known that I had knocked on that door.
Now that the confession is over and the main theme has been conveyed, it’s time for the writer and the reader to go after whatever it is that they don’t want to be late for.
And may the soft-haired Müzeyyen rest in peace.