Nurcan insists that I lay down on the couch on the veranda of her family's Armutlu summer house. I like the way she pronounces summerhouse, how it rolls off her tongue so it almost blends into one syllable. "It is my favorite place to rest" she says. It is a perfect summers day, warm with little vespers of breeze coming from the Marmara Sea at the end of the garden path. It is Bayram, a time when families come together. A national holiday and festival, both religious and secular. Through the white lattice of the verandah I can see the last of this summers tomato crop. One fat red tomato hangs heavily, ripe for the picking. The olive trees are in full fruit. Below them spreads a carpet of herbs, mint and parsley and biber (peppers) in a colorful array of reds and greens.
There are seven people currently in the house, but it is remarkably quiet and I suspect that a couple of the others have found a quiet corner for an afternoon nap.
I close my eyes and listen to the sounds of Armutlu. It is multilayered. The gentle rustle of the leaves of the olive trees, the flap of the red flag on the balcony as it flutters in the breeze. The sounds of someone preparing food in the kitchen. The slap of the waves on the sea wall as it catches the wake of the afternoon sea-bus to Istanbul. Along the seafront stretches a path, home to a constant stream of people. Holiday makers and vendors. Women in headscarves, girls in bikinis, families, stray dogs. Two small boys on a bicycle go by. One is riding, the other perched on the crossbar. Each of them sucking on a tri-colored rocket-shaped ice-cream. I look again and they are followed by two more boys on another bicycle exactly the same. The Simit man comes by with his trolley of freshly baked Simit. I tell myself I can smell the toasted sesame seeds from where I am resting. "Simit, Simit, simmmiiiiit!" He calls. There is the hum of fishing boats making their way out to sea and the sounds of children laughing and splashing and swimming. And overlaying it all is the murmur of voices in a language I don't speak. Occasionally familiar words cut through the symphony of sounds as friends drop by to visit the family. "Iyi Bayramlar". "Hosgeldiniz". "çok guzel". They sit under shade of the pergola, drink scaldingly hot tea from tulip-shaped tea glasses and nibble on crumbly home-made biscuits. The young people kiss the hand of the matriarch in a gesture of respect. I have noted that in Turkey the generations mix more fluidly than in our society. There is a greater sense of family and respect for the elders.
I am tired from the last three days of intense heat in Pammukale. We walked the archeological sites of Aphrodisious, Laodykia, Heiropolis and Tripolis in temperatures that sometimes reached into the 40s. Clambering over amphitheaters and stadiums and traversing ancient roman roads.
I am torn between enjoying the fresh air and ambiance of the garden or giving in to sleep. I like to sleep because it is respite from the grief that is always with me. Although here, in this little patch of paradise, it doesn't tug so hard on my heart. I close my eyes once more and wonder if there will ever be a time of waking that isn't filled with his loss. My beautiful golden-haired boy.
Finally the God of dreams seduces me and I sink into the arms of Morpheus. And I sleep.
