Ms. Lâle,” with a heartfelt affectation in her voice, “After your words like this, I fell in
love with you. After your words like this, I started to have insomnia…” Some mornings, when

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she was leaving the house, she would happily list these words to my mother. When he’s gone,
my mother turns to me, “What would I do now if you weren’t there?” she said. I was the only
child in the house.

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After me, my mother had several miscarriages. Doctors said everything is
normal, but in the third and fourth months of pregnancy, the baby died in my mother’s womb.
My mother used to tell me that it was very difficult. “The fairy is confused with you, if your
first child is a girl, it means she is strangling boys; Those who describe the amulet saying, “If

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you get pregnant with a girl, she will live”, those who tried to have my medicine supplies
written, relatives who told my father to remarry… I couldn’t help but cry when I moved from
Ağlasun to Isparta. My father was a little taken aback. My mother was resting my head on her

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shoulder, stroking my hair, as if dressing a bleeding wound. My father reminded my mother,
“Let’s not touch, let her cry” with a smile. While my mother was crying silently on the nights
of travel, my father would lean into my ear and say, “Your mother is an angel of melancholy.”
He showed me to my mother,

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saying “the second angel of melancholy is coming”.My mother
wouldn’t be upset about such things. He didn’t really care about people. He didn’t care what
anyone said.

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He was so in himself, so on his own. How I broke up with him, I’m still amazed
at the patience I showed. Human beings involuntarily endure while they live, and then they
cannot believe that they endure… My mother started to spend most of her time with Aunt

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Mevhibe when we were about to leave Isparta. They had a very strong bond of love, a unity of
heart. Now I remember those days, when they looked at each other with eyes trembling with
separation. A hidden desperation in my mother’s eyes; Aunt Mevhibe joins that desperation by

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singing a maniac my mother loved: “Wound place, Wound spot. The caravan has migrated, It
has traveled, I beg for the wound, Neither you have run out of wood, nor I have the wound
place…” My dear friend

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Canan and I in Isparta could not get enough of listening to the stories
of Gülcü Girls from Aunt Mevhibe. Aunt Mevhibe’s sweet, lovely voice, as if she were

carrying hundreds of sparrows, is still in my ears: “Roses are gathered either before sunrise or

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in the cool of the evening, but the weather is always a lilac-colored, sweet evening in the red
rose vineyard. Only rose girls gather the roses; Only their delicate fingers understand the
nature of the coy rose. As she deepens her love for roses, smiling girls leave the sweat of the

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conversation in the hands of smiling girls. They call it rose mud. However, in reality, it is not
mud, it is a sign of love. Laughing girls wrap the mud of roses in cloths like membranes and
hide them in their sheep. As their skin smells like roses, they become happy as if they are

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mixed in with the mystery of the rose…” Canan would take notes on everything Aunt
Mevhibe told. We were so similar to each other; like the lines of a poem… Fate did not break
the weave of this togetherness for a long time; Canan and I won Istanbul Literature and left


Isparta. After the news of yin sent my parents to Kütahya, we went to Istanbul with Canan. It
was the days of such unbearable pain that I don’t know how my heart endured those days.
Mom can’t stand any goodbyes. And yet, when he went to Kütahya, what a text he looked
like. He lied. It was a cloud that

concealed the pain that would strike her heart like lightning
as soon as she left me. In the arms of farewell I was a little girl afraid of getting lost. That’s
how I felt, my mom sensed it, and we cried as if we were finally lost in each other’s arms. I
told him, “I’m leaving you so I can learn a little about what death is.” He had his hand over
my mouth, trying to smile while crying. No face could be as beautiful as my mother’s smiling
face, and no heart could be more worthy of falling in love than her light heart. Finally he left,
dying and killing me. Canan has been looking for rose oil for me all day. While I was sinking
in like a sad cantor after that farewell, he sought some consolation, perhaps my favorite color,