The Length of a Cigarette — Time
This post was first published on Medium: https://medium.com/@marketingholmes/bir-sigara-i̇çimi-uzunluğunda-zaman-d6c3b02a3bc
Time is a baby whose new mother keeps listening to its breathing, afraid it will die. Time is a rainy Istanbul evening, the wet streets of Moda. Time is a Cem Karaca song, crackling quietly on an apprentice’s greasy radio so the master won’t hear. Time is the spring a leafy branch was forced to let go of because its time had come. Time is the birdsong full of life reaching a patient with only hours left to live, through cold hospital bars. Time is a little girl forced to grow up, who, even at 26, still sleeps hugging her teddy bear tight. Time is what slips through the calloused hands of a worker who knows by heart the train stations of cities he has never set foot in.
Time is the worry about the future of a little girl growing up with the orange light of the sun rising behind distant hills. Time is the last speck, tossed into the air at harvest, of soil kneaded with sweat and tears. Time is the longing-scented last line of a Nazım Hikmet poem. Time is the white-collar worker’s ink stains left on the palms after long hours of overtime. Time is a mother’s tears. Time is a feather a swallow drops as it flies in a hurry, a baby’s first step, a father’s helplessness.
Time is the fate of these lands, of these lands above all.
* This piece was first published on Marketingholmes.com.
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