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Sinopem, or, Nostalgia

Is it a physical space we seek to find inside, loved ones, ourselves once all is no longer?

the homeland enters the main vein
her incomparable scent penetrates each body cell
one stunning aroma after another
thirsting for her, beyond any measure
in hunger pangs
captive in intense longing
etched in permanence into memory

my childhood in many of her spaces
carefree years of my youth
the magic of my early adulthood
unrivaled,
in the flesh and the blood,
distant memories,
reappearing as experiences

one corner of the homeland
distinctive delight
an all-embracing town,
in unison with the sea
unlocks the long forgotten.

There, where it stretches out
onto the cheery harbor
main street peeks into ancient-old tea gardens
and more sea hugs the salt factory:
Right there, Divan cafe,
as alert as ever before, eyeing the old prison of the inner bay
not bothered by its maturing bent
sated with ancient echoes from devouring local specialties
on a mouth-watering decorative plate
by my childhood eyes and arousing sighs
a huge piece of revani - befitting my sweet-tooth-fame,
topped with ice cream - vanilla beans,
delighting generation after generation after generation
eight in total, the loved ones of mine

farther away lies the artery of the town
extending the slender path to Ada, the famed island
a ribbon bouquet in an April 23rd parade
Çocuk Bayramı, Children's Festival
flowing, in sync with streets so open, alleys so hidden
sweeping from each home
a memory of mine
making one anew

my eyes locked on the path to Ada again
the town's highest peak
one short look away to the left and the right
the sea struts its clear blue wealth and might, unabashed
like the beauty of the town's women, young and old
and there,
a breath away
right before me
with its mysteries of my childhood
that spectacular house

its paint an ashen hue now
wooden bricks, all worn out
still standing high in aging humility
vies to breathe a little longer
its decades-old glances down upon the sea,
a tenderness on the soil, of a new mother's hands
on which its roots are spread, soon to finally rest
ornate windows reaching toward the immense blue of the sky
Alas! Dear beings of mine
no longer there to warm the insides

on the entry steps
my mother
ever so young
ever so pretty
cheerful, too
my heart then wanders on to the captive past
a child of very young years on the faded print
her father arrives from work
through one of the colossal front windows
seated next to her mother:
a briefcase in one hand
on his head a wide-brimmed fedora
flattering to his stately height;
the child glued to his leg
a very dear soul of mine
my grandmother, however, remains in the dark
I cannot pick her out - have never known her
in one faded photograph alone
my mom next to her, her face, in the light
but, the baby on her lap...
that must be the other dear being of mine
the one beloved soul in whom none of us could take much delight,
stricken by a fatal disease
bidding farewell ever so young

next to me
the unique scent of my mother
the warmest warmth of her heart

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Copyright © The copyright of all stories, poems, non-fictional essays and any and all uncategorized writings under the user name "hopeful4" belongs to hülya yılmaz.

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