[Summer 2014, my dad with my grandson in his arms. I must have worn out those arms or hands by insisting for years he’d carry me…Then, when, just once, he gets the chance to hold his great-grandson, the little darling happens to feel not so comfortable as I have for time and time again]
[My dad, with a three-year old me in his arms – the date on the photo is original]
Whiny
She died
at 48
I was 25
at each of our phone calls since
your shaky voice sang to me:
“We are behind you always!”
I am 58 now
even became a grandmother
but you know, dad, what I still do?
I keep looking back to see those loving four hands
not touching me not to risk my freedom
just being there, for anytime I might need their tender safety net
and how many times did I let go those slippery ropes
with you lifting me up from the choppy waters I dove into
I see you more and more in my dreams of the late
the way I used to see mom before her death
as if to sense my growing fear
this Bayram you told me the story of your family-side’s luck
how they “make it” to a rather late age…
One pair of hands have been gone for long
though you kept them close to your side all along
What am I to do, dad,
if the other pair is no longer behind me always?
hülya n yılmaz (© August 1, 2014)
hülyaswritings 