It was a blustery February morning, and just a few days before my 40^th birthday, when my cell phone rang. I thought perhaps it was someone offering me early well wishes. But it was my mom, calling with news that would forever alter the course of my life.

“Hi, Mom,” I said as I sat down. “How are you?”
“Not good,” she whispered like a frightened child sharing a dark secret. “You know I’ve been feeling really down lately.”

“Yeah,” I said softly, matching her breathy tone.

She was talking so quietly that I cupped my hand over my left ear so I could hear her.
“I just swallowed a bunch of sleeping pills,” she blurted out.

My eyes widened as I sprung to my feet, nearly tripping over my toddler.

“A bunch? Like, how many?” I asked.

“I dunno,” she replied. “A lot.”

I raced to the kitchen, my hands trembling as I fumbled to dial 911 from the landline while trying to keep Mom talking to me on my cell.

A few moments later, I told her that the paramedics were on their way. She mumbled something incoherent. I could already feel her drifting away.

“Can you hear me?”

Numbing silence filled the line. Desperate to keep her awake, I continued talking, my voice growing louder each time I spoke.

“Are you still with me? Mom? Mom!”

Sensing the intensity to my tone, my 8-year-old son asked what was wrong. I wanted to comfort him, but I had to keep focused on Mom. Meanwhile, my toddler, who had only just realized his grandmother was on the phone, threw his goldfish crackers to the floor and pleaded to speak with her. He reached for the receiver with his tiny, cheddar-stained hands and shrieked, “I talk to Ga-ma!”

“Not now,” I said gently.

Both my boys burst into tears as my mind raced with worry. I paced the floor and repeatedly asked, “Are you still there, Mom? Keep talking to me.”

But I only heard a hint of monosyllabic mumbles, then a thud.

I stopped for a moment and stood beside the sliding glass door, shifting my weight from my right leg to my left as I stared out at the falling snow. I kept my eyes fixed on a specific tree branch in an effort to still my mind even as my restless stomach churned.

The wind whipped wildly, which made the snowflakes look as if they were engaged in a vicious game of tug-of-war. Blowing in umpteen different directions, the blustery scene depicted my current state of mind: frenzied, scattered, unsettled. My anxious eyes darted back and forth between the ticking clock, my wailing kids, and the straining pine trees in the backyard.

Finally, I heard the paramedics in the background and for the first time in forever, I took a breath.

I shot off a text message to my brother.

“Call me,” I wrote. “Mom just tried to kill herself.”

Even as I hit “send” with my quivering thumb, the moment seemed surreal. Did this really just happen? How? Why?

As I drove to Missouri, I tried to imagine what was running through my mom’s desperate mind as she ingested an entire bottle of sleeping pills. I envisioned her in her soft flannel pajamas, sitting on the cold tile bathroom floor, swallowing one handful of pills after another. My eyes squeezed shut and a lump formed in the back of my throat. I knew clinical depression was scary, but I’d never seen it up-close-and-personal.

When I stepped inside the hospital room, Mom’s eyes revealed a mixture of sorrow, regret, guilt, and fear. I sat next to her on her bed. She clasped my hand in hers, gripping it tightly.

“I’m sorry,” Mom said softly, staring at the floor.

It’s okay,” I replied.

The truth was that it wasn’t okay. Not even a little bit. But what else could I say?

I stayed with her for several days, trying to soothe her by offering hugs and encouraging her by offering advice.

“Go to group therapy. Go to individual therapy. Do anything and everything to help you feel better,” I suggested. “Snarf up every resource possible.”

But instead of concentrating on getting better, she seemed more concerned with how her behavior would be perceived.

“What will people say if they find out what I did?” Mom asked, her eyes brimming with tears.

After she was released from the hospital, I went back home to Indiana. The following month, I was cautiously optimistic when Mom invited me, my husband, and our sons to visit her for her birthday and stay through Easter weekend. I took it as a good sign that she wanted to reconnect with her grandsons, so we packed our bags and drove west.

Though it was great to spend time with Mom, she was anxious and unsettled, worried that the kids might make a mess in her house. This was a far cry from the woman who in the past would often jump into the lake to entertain her grandsons. She spoke slowly and methodically yet still stumbled on her words. She seemed uncomfortable in her own skin. She wouldn’t even sit down to eat meals. Instead she stood by the sink, nervously nibbling at her food like a rodent.

One morning when the house was quiet, Mom approached me and said meekly, “Christy. I have to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

I didn’t want to rush her or force her, but I was desperate to hear what she had to say.

“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” she said, squeezing my hands as if to relay some sort of message to me through code.

“Honest about what?”

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. I pressed her a bit more.

“You can tell me, Mom. Whatever it is, I’ll help you. What are you not being honest about?”

“We’d better get ready,” she said tersely, releasing my hands. “The boys want to go to the zoo today.”

Just like that, the moment was gone.

At the zoo, the kids had fun seeing the animals and riding the train, but I couldn’t get past the vacant stare in Mom’s eyes. It was like she was looking past everybody—like she wasn’t all there. Anytime I tried to engage with her, I’d get the same response: “I’m tired.”

That evening after tucking the boys into bed, I asked Mom if she wanted to talk. She looked at me with a pained expression, like she was gripping a hot plate without a pot holder.

“Well, I…um, I,” she muttered.

I don’t know if she couldn’t speak or wouldn’t speak or what was going on. But her mind definitely seemed muddled. I knew something was gnawing at Mom, but I didn’t know how to pull it out of her.

When I laid down to bed that night, tears welled up in my eyes as I confided to my husband, “I think Mom may still be suicidal.”

I hated to admit it out loud, and yet, I could sense a definite heaviness to her spirit.

“Why do you say that?” Eric asked.

“I can’t put my finger on it, but she’s definitely not herself. She’s apologized profusely for trying to kill herself, but earlier today she told me that she’s not been completely honest with me, and when I asked her what about, she clammed up. Have you noticed how empty her eyes look?”

“What do we do? Your dad won’t listen. He’s adamant that she’s getting better.”

“But clearly she’s not. I wish I could get her to confide in me, but I feel like us being here is stressing her out more,” I said. “If the boys’ energy is causing her anxiety to spike, maybe we should take off and let her and Dad have a quiet holiday weekend.”

“Okay,” Eric agreed.

The next morning, I found Mom in the kitchen. She wasn’t eating, cooking, or doing dishes. She was simply standing in her housecoat staring into space. Until she caught a glimpse of my oldest son. Then her eyes moved to him and she watched him intently, like she was memorizing his every move. She did the same when my younger son entered the room. When I sat down, she acknowledged me with a weak, forced smile like she was using every last bit of energy to keep from crying.

I approached her and said softly, “Mom, we’ve decided to leave early.”

“When?”

“Here in a few minutes,” I said. “Eric’s packing the car.”

Confusion, sadness, and relief simultaneously spread across her face.

“Why today?” she asked.

“I can tell you’re struggling, Mom, and I know the boys have a lot of energy. I want you to be able to rest so I think it’s best if we get out of your hair.”

Her lips began to quiver, her brows furrowed, and she said with palpable remorse, “I’m sorry, Christy. I’m so sorry.”

It was a phrase she had repeated numerous times over the past three days so I didn’t think much of it. I replied in the same way I had all weekend—by telling her, “It’s okay.”

We hugged and I told her I loved her.

“Things will get better,” I whispered into her ear. “I promise.”

Those were the last words I ever spoke to my mother.

Six weeks later, my phone rang again. When I answered, I heard my dad’s voice, low and scratchy, say my name, followed by a long pause.

“She did it again,” he said quietly.

My gut clenched as all the color drained from my face.

“What?” I asked.

“She was doing better. She seemed stronger….” he said, his voice cracking.

My entire body began to tremble.

“It’s far worse this time,” he continued. “She swallowed hundreds of pills of all different kinds.”
My knees buckled.

“No-no-no-no,” I repeated.

How could this be happening again?

“I’ll jump in the car,” I told my dad as tears sprang to my burning eyes. “I can leave right now and be there by midnight.”

“Even if you left now, I don’t think you’d make it in time to say goodbye.”

Wait. What? Goodbye? Oh, Jesus!

My breath caught in my throat as my heart splintered.

When I got news in the middle of the night that Mom had died from the overdose, my world faded to grey.

Why? Why? Why? Why?

A thousand other questions bombarded my brain, but this was the predominant one. I could not, for the life of me, make sense of the fact that my sweet, loving, kind, compassionate mom would choose to take her own life. It defied logic and left me feeling helpless, hopeless, and hollow. How was I supposed to go on? How was I to let go of the guilt that gnawed at me round the clock? How was I to ever smile again? None of it seemed possible.

“Everything’s possible with God,” well-meaning people told me. But their platitudes and looks of pity only pissed me off. They didn’t know what it felt like to be leveled by grief. Though friends encouraged me to find peace through prayer, I did the opposite and gave God the silent treatment. What did I have to say to Him, anyway? I was angry that He had not only taken away my mom but that He had allowed her to exit the earth in such a terrible, tragic way. Having been a Christian all my life, I’ll admit it felt strange to cut Christ from my life, but I didn’t know what else to do. Many days, I found myself curled in the fetal position, sobbing and gasping for air.

Over the next six months, everything was a chore—driving, cooking, reading, even sleeping. Then one night I fell into a deep slumber and was met by a vivid dream that seemed to carry with it a distinct message.
I was at home when suddenly bright blue skies began to darken as a slight breeze tickled the shutters. Instantaneously, the sky transformed into a greenish-black hue. A small hiss followed a rumble, then a booming crash. The ground shook with a sinister force. Giant tree limbs snapped. Heavy shutters broke. Tin mailboxes crumpled. Wooden dog houses cracked. As the wind continued to howl, dirt, debris, and trash swirled through the air like frenzied snowflakes. Fence sections and lawn ornaments crashed through windows and dented car doors.

The scene was chaotic and scary. I glanced out the window, helpless and weak. Then, just as quickly as it built, the storm died out, and the world grew eerily still. I stepped outside to assess the damage and my jaw dropped at the sight of the devastation. Our beautiful house—a house I had always perceived to be strong and indestructible—was now a shell of its former self.

As I walked the perimeter of the house, I saw that it was uprooted from its foundation. It became evident that we wouldn’t have access to power or water anytime soon. It was going to take a lot of time and effort to rebuild this foundation—to start fresh. As a result, we would not be living comfortably for quite some time.

There was a silver lining, however. Despite such extensive damage, we determined that we could stay in the house, which provided a degree of comfort.

I stood in stunned silence, beholding the wreckage that surrounded me. I couldn’t believe the massive devastation that had leveled my life in the blink of an eye. But…I had survived.

For the first time since Mom’s suicide, I woke up with a sense of peace. I knew I would still face challenges and cry countless tears. But I had survived the worst, and though my foundation was shaky, I was still standing. And I could feel God standing beside me.

In the weeks and months ahead, I began surrounding myself with others who needed love and support, and, together, we journeyed through our pain: we shared tears, smiles, and embraces, and we held one another up, day in and day out. I learned that being in a community is perhaps the most important piece of life’s puzzle when it comes to maintaining a healthy existence. I also found that even in the deepest, darkest pit of despair, one can find a sliver of light, a glimmer of hope, a hint of peace. And that is what propels us forward, enabling us to breathe in, breathe out, and carry on.

It was 3:45 pm. I was sitting crossed-legged with twenty other seven-year olds under a wall of flat glass windows. An eerie calm had settled outside, where a short time before there had been whipping winds and a sky as green as Kermit the Frog. My mom whisked into the building, her sensible yet fashionable heels clicking on the worn linoleum, and the petals of her flowered dress rippling with her gait. Shocked that I was not huddled in an enclosed room, she took one look at my position under the windows and told me it was time to go. That was the last time I ever saw my after-school program. Everyone knows not to take cover under glass during a tornado.

On the way home, my mom angled the car around downed branches the width of tree trunks and garbage cans lolling down the curb. The world was spent: siding dangled from the edge of condos, and telephone poles were precariously tilted, if they stood at all. People ambled about, assessing the damage as the neighborhood settled into a collective sigh. A policeman at the end of the lane directed traffic to make only a right turn onto the main street because of downed power lines to the left, the direction of our house. My mom said, exasperated, “Now we’ll never get home!” My mom, always tough and calm, was worried. It wasn’t until that moment that I got scared too.

We did, eventually, make our way to our still-intact home. Thinking back on that moment, one of a few post-tornado moments during my Indiana childhood, I note most how my fear was derived from my parents’ fear. I always felt safe and happy when at their side, but in the rare moments when they were fearful, I became beside myself with terror.

When I was growing up my mom and I would sometimes watch horror movies while sitting on our worn, brown suede couch. When the background music began its inevitable, this-is-the-scariest-part crescendo, I would turn my head 90 degrees to the right and look straight into my mom’s eyes. For the entire duration, my mom would calmly report that the masked man was bludgeoning the babysitter or wryly observe, “Oh, looks like the psycho wasn’t dead after all.” Sometimes she’d insert an, “Ew, gross!” exclamation when something bloody took her by surprise. I got all the emotion I could handle by looking into her eyes during those parts; she became a sort of “closed captioning” for me—recapping what my senses wouldn’t let me experience first-hand.

When I was a child and swam competitively for years with the local swim club, my parents attended every swim meet I participated in. They would sweat it out on the hot bleachers of the indoor pool deck, fanning themselves as they sat for hours in the backless bleachers waiting for my race to begin. If I became nervous before my event, as I always did, I’d scan the population of faces in ordered rows until I found my parents. My dad, always looking for me, would catch my eye and give me a thumbs up with a double eyebrow raise and a big smile for support. I would immediately feel relief and was instantly braver because he believed in me.

When I graduated from my small-town college and decided to move to New York City without a job, a friend, or a long-term place to stay, my parents took care not to discourage me. Instead, they threw an early birthday party for me and did the tough thing—they bought me luggage, in acceptance that I had to live my dreams, even if they took me far away from family. Upon unpacking that luggage, I found a tiny yellow post-it that my parents and older sister signed that said, “Love ya!!!” with each of their familiar signatures surrounding it. Beneath it was a card that said, “You Must Take Your Chance.” Never once did they remind me of my shy demeanor or annoying tendency to throw up repeatedly when travelling on my own. Never once did they ask me to stay with them forever, even though their eyes might have mentioned it.

 As an adult, I still gauge fear by my parents’ eyes. A few years ago, during a phone call that bridged the 1000-mile gap between our homes, my mom told me my dad was diagnosed with a brain tumor. She spoke flatly, like a tiny person standing in the mouth of a huge cave, every syllable clear and solitary. There were no reverberations, no hints of emotion. I tried to be the echo of her stillness. But when I arrived at my parent’s house and looked into my mom’s eyes, I knew we were in trouble.

The night before my dad’s brain surgery, he and I sat in cushioned deck chairs on the shaded back porch of the house. He looked intently into my face and asked if I thought he was doing the right thing by having surgery and if I thought he was going to be okay. His doctor had given him 6-12 months to live and flatly stated that this condition had a high mortality rate. Surgery could buy him time, but most likely he would not survive. My dad’s tumor gave him short term memory loss, so he forgot all of that. What he remembered was that he trusted me. What I knew was that every moment we’re given here on earth, we are living. If there was even a one percent chance that my dad would live, what’s to say he wouldn’t be in that one percent? Sitting on the porch that night, I breathed in, collecting all the calm I could from the cheerful summer day, erased fear from my face, and answered, “You’ve improved so much in this past week on medicine alone. I think you’re going to be fine.”

After his surgery, my mom, sister, and I walked down the hallway to see my dad in the intensive care unit. I have a nauseous fear of hospitals, one I inherited from my dad: a feeling that the hallway is too long, that the patients behind the floor-to-ceiling windows are unprotected so near to the thin glass walls, their bodies storming inside. We shakily entered Dad’s room, and he smiled at us and groggily said, “I feel fine,” then crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue to prove his normalcy. I relaxed, seeing his face, seeing he was okay. I think he did it for that reason.

I guess that is what love is—reassuring each other in the eye of a storm, being the wall of calm and protective peace within the whirl of a tornado.

Radon is one of the noble gases in the periodic table. It is the heaviest, naturally occurring one among them. Due to its size, it is the most likely to establish compounds with other elements, compared to the other noble gases. However, its radioactivity easily breaks the bonds that are established between Radon and other elements. Thus, Radon has very few known compounds.

Radon forms in the radioactive decay chain of Uranium, which then forms Thorium, then Radium, and finally Radon. Radon condenses to form a solid that glows with yellow light due to its radioactivity. The half-life of Radon changes depending on the isotope at hand, but the longest half-life detected is around 92 hours.

Radon naturally occurs underground, and does not dissolve much in water or other liquids there. When it leaks above surface in the form of gas, it tends to accumulate in the not-well-ventilated parts of the houses, e.g. basements. Exposure to Radon gas is linked with cancer, and so it is considered as a health hazard. On the other side, the hot springs that contain trace amounts of Radon gas are used rarely to cure heart disease.

The following is an allegorical story in the form of a letter about how Radon develops in nature.

I am the only survivor from a quadruplet. One of my sisters survived only 108 minutes after birth. The death of the second one followed about half hour later. I spent my childhood with my only remaining sister. Our mother was not there either, because she had died while giving birth to us.

As we were growing into our adolescence, we shared many secrets with my sister, be them adventurous or romantic. She was a sister, a close friend, and sometimes a mom. When she died in her flourishing age, I not only lost my third sister but also lost a mom for the second time.

Since then, without bothering myself whether they are friend or foe, I let people approach me. I show affinity to them so much so that I am considered as the most sociable noble. When they start enjoying the beauties displayed on me, I am stressed by my need of privacy and security. And, I easily push everyone away by intimidating them with the very beauties they were attracted to.

So, life has been a bottomless solitude for me… Yes, being alone is part of being noble, and I need my privacy in my ivory tower. But I’d rather not have impenetrable walls between me and people.

What a discrepancy! I have a habit of intimidating people to push them away, but I am complaining from an endless solitude at the same time… Why am I like this? It feels as if there is an unknown person in me, over which I have no control, who is doing things using my body. Should I cry for help: I am stolen!

I thought about this a lot. Was it a psychological inheritance I received from the family? You know that my mother died when giving birth to me and that my sisters followed her. My grandmother also died when giving birth to my mother, and my grand-grandmother died when giving birth to my grandmother. I don’t know if it is this strangeness that makes me instinctively seek solitude, so much so that my husband could not stand me. I told him that our relationship could only survive in the polar cold places, and he said he can stay cold but not in a place where there is no one else. Eventually, our marriage ended, after which I realized that I was pregnant.

But life goes on, you know, whether you are a noble who pathetically seeks solitude, or if your mother died when giving birth to you, or if you are a pregnant mom left to herself… “The great gears of life turn with irresistible momentum. You either keep pace with it, or get smashed in it.” That’s what my mother said in her letter to me. And that letter is all I have of her. Though, however much I would like her to be with me, and share my joys of success and sorrows of failure. Maybe she would reveal precious life lessons to me, or whisper her secrets into my ear. Maybe she would reprimand me sometimes… Not a single moment lived with her, not even a smack… I wished that this not be the lot of my baby, but how?

I thought of Prophet Abraham’s wife, Hagar. Alarmed by her baby’s cries, she had rushed between two distant hills in search of finding some people to come for help. God had replied to her efforts by creating a spring in the middle of the desert, just near her, and guiding travelers there.

Following Hagar’s example, I tried taking refuge near people so that my baby would not be in a lonely world. In order not to disturb them, I chose their least used places. But people cast me out of there, lest I contract some illness. I tried fancy yellow dresses to make myself look friendly. But, instead of becoming friends, they put me in glass chambers. I tried to help people with some of their diseases, but except a few, they shunned me since I was too risky to be adopted into medical practice.

Oh my God, despite all my efforts, my baby was going to come into a solitary world like her mom’s. I knew I was going to be alone when giving birth, and so was my baby. There was a sour smile on my face every time I thought of her…

But maybe… Maybe one day, God would guide travelers here, and she could join them, and prosper wherever she ends up with. Maybe she would have a stable family, and become the mother of many. And I hope, even in her well-established state then, she could still keep her lineage at heart, from our grandest grandmother all the way down to her mother: Uranium, Thorium, Radium, and, me, Radon.

What could I do to make sure that my daughter holds on to her past? Could I write a letter, just like my mother left to me? Maybe that was a good option, since I inherited from my mother all the letters left from mother to daughter starting with the grandma Uranium. Yes, I could abide by the tradition of letters, and tell my daughter how much I loved her even before I could hold her in my arms. I could tell her that she had appeared in my dark night like a bright star, although she was yet in my womb. Maybe this way, she could feel at ease when with people, unlike her mother. She could make real friends and be happy with them, even if I won’t see her once.

Yes, I won’t see you, sweetie. It is what the doctors told while giving me your glad tidings: that I had cancer, and that my body would not sustain a birth. I had to choose between carrying you and a life without you. I chose to live with you, my precious, even if that meant the end of my life when yours bloomed. When you are going to be reading this letter, I’ll be watching you with your aunts. Shine and make us smile with your beauty.

Love,
Your mom Radon

“Honey, you already fasted last year for three days, didn’t you?” replied her mother, hardly able to hide her smile.

“Mom! I don’t mean a ‘kid’s fasting’. I am talking about the real stuff,” she said raising her soft voice.

“It is wonderful that you want to fast but you need to grow up some more. Why don’t you first try your ‘kid’s fast’ again tomorrow, fast until noon, then have your lunch. I am sure even angels will look down at you with admiration. They will say ‘Wow! Such a brave girl! She is only five years old and yet she already fasts for half of the day.'”

Rolling her eyes, she protested to her mother once again:

“Mom I am not a baby anymore! My sister is fasting, my older brother is fasting, you are fasting, and dad is fasting. Everybody is fasting except for my baby brothers and I. Please mom, I can do it, I want to do it, please…”

“Dear, you are a very strong girl, I know, but you see your stomach is still very little. Your hands, your mouth, you are still a little person. You already know that children don’t need to fast until they are a lot older. Maybe next year, or the year after you can try to fast a day or two, and when you become a teenager, you’ll be fasting the entire Ramadan. But this year you’ll only be doing the kid’s fast.”

As she looked at her little daughter hoping that her words would end the discussion, her heart was overflowing with such a joy and happiness, in the midst of compassion. How proud she was! She uttered a silent little prayer inside, “My little angel, O my dear Lord, please keep the love of worship and devotion overflowing from her heart her entire life with a child-like purity and sincerity, just like now.”

As soon as the little girl’s dark eyes caught her mother’s lips moving, she jump off of her seat. She must have had thought that it was a green light, and that her mother was about to say “yes.”

“Great!” she screamed, her face was enlightened with an excitement. Hardly grasping a breath, she continued: “Then you can wake me up for the early morning breakfast before dawn. Then I can have enough food and water and then be prepared for a day of fasting. I am so happy. And then…”

Her mother and father looked at each other, somewhat reluctant, and then her father interrupted her. “Dear, it seems like you are not listening to what your mother is saying. I know you are a brave girl, and your mother told me that your friends have been calling you ‘fearless’ since the day you challenged them and climbed all the way up to the top of the power pole on the street. I also know you love God, and you want to begin your journey as an obedient servant, and you are excited about your first full fasting, but you are missing something my dear…”

Ready to protest again, her little fingers swayed back and forth over her fork and spoon, and she asked: “What? What is it that I am missing?”

“You also have to be patient. God willing, next year you could try to do one full day of fasting.”

About to burst into tears, she mumbled with a barely audible voice:

“I am fasting tomorrow, whether or not you wake me up for the early breakfast. I am ready and I am fasting tomorrow!”

Her older sister sitting next to her couldn’t help hearing her murmuring and she whispered into her ears: “Oh, you are more stubborn than a goat!”

As she left the table and went back to her room, she wasn’t sure who the winner of the argument was. She climbed up to her bunk bed and closed her eyes tight. She murmured: “Tomorrow will be my first real fasting!”

As soon as she opened her eyes in the morning, she jumped out of bed, almost falling down as she climbed down, and ran to the window. It was already very bright outside. Was it already morning? Had she missed the dawn? Did everybody oversleep? She ran to her parents’ room, screaming:

“Mom, dad, wake up! We overslept, we overslept!”

She saw that her father had already gone, and her mother was about to finish her daily reading of the Qur’an.

“Honey,” said her mother. “I thought we had reached an agreement last night.” She wasn’t able to get any answer from her daughter, so she continued: “Our Creator is so merciful that He never asks us to do anything that is more than we can bear, it is not only children, but many adults are also excused from fasting. For instance, do you remember when I had your baby brother, I didn’t fast for a while, or when your grandmother got very sick and had to take so many medications, she skipped some days of fasting. When you become old enough and your body gets stronger, I know you will be super cool with your fasting, but now I don’t want you to rush into something before you are ready and lose your enthusiasm for later.” She was ready to continue but when she saw the tears in her little angel’s eyes, she stopped and hugged her: “Okay, okay young lady, let’s make an agreement then. You can try and keep your fast as long as you can but it is a summer day, it will be long and very hot so when you get really thirsty, hungry or tired, you can take a few minutes break, then you can continue your fasting. If you forget that you are fasting and eat or drink something, that’s okay, that means angels are trying to help you with the blessings from heaven. And don’t forget, no matter how you do, I am proud of you.”

Finally all the shine and happiness came back to her eyes and the little girl answered: “Deal mom!”

A couple of hours later, she decided to go outside to play. It was really warm outside. She looked around to see if any of her friends were around but she could only see a few shadows from the distance. First she thought about running over to play with them, but then she felt a little tired. Instead, she sat down on the brick pavement.

” I guess I am tired, and it is not even noon yet!” She bent over her stomach and began to chat: “Hey there! How do you feel? Are you hungry?” The only response from her little stomach was a rumbling voice. She smiled and patted herself on the stomach: “Listen, we are growing up today and learning to be patient. Think about all the poor people in the world, they cannot find food most of the time, now do you understand them better?” It seemed like her stomach was convinced and stopped rumbling, she was so proud of herself. With a big smile on her face, she started to watch people passing by on the street.

All of a sudden she heard her favorite sound of summer. A street vendor was calling out: “Snow cones! I have snow cones! Snow cones with all the flavors!” She forgot about everything and quickly checked her pockets. Yes! She had enough money to buy whichever flavor she liked. She rushed to the snow cone vendor and shouted: “Hey, wait! Wait for me! May I have a chocolate flavored snow cone please? You know what, give me the one with lemon and strawberry flavor as well.”

The vendor was a dark skinned young man. As he handed her snow cones wrapped with blue papers, he greeted his favorite customer with a big smile: “Look at you! You have grown up a lot since last year.”

She giggled and handed the money. She was hardly able to hold all three snow cones in one hand, the weather was so warm that they started to melt and drip all over her hands. She didn’t seem to mind, the coolness of the icy drops helped her cool down a little, but it also made her feel her thirst even more. In a hurry as she was trying to unwrap the blue paper from the first one, she noticed the vendor’s dark face, now even darker due to walking under the sun trying to sell all the snow cones and his lips were cracked probably because of thirst. She felt so selfish to have all these three snow cones for herself. A little shy and hesitant, she extended one of them to the man and said: “Please have one of them, three is too much for me anyway.” The man answered: “You are a generous girl, but thank you, I am fasting.” Suddenly, time stopped and she remembered that she also was fasting. “Oh ok,” she said nodding her head goodbye to the vendor and headed back to the brick she was sitting on a few minutes ago. With her stomach rumbling, she mumbled: “So am I, so am I!”

As her vendor friend disappeared around the corner, she didn’t know how to feel. She looked around, there was no one watching her. Well, nobody would think that she was fasting anyway. Her stomach started rumbling again, her lips felt dryer than ever, her hands were covered with the cool-sweet snow cone drips. She took a deep breath, stood up, and began to run towards to children playing in the distance. As she was running her heart was pounding, the ground under her feet felt like it was slipping away and her lips were constantly moving: “I am fasting, I am fasting. My dear God, I promised you, I am fasting today.” As she reached the children, she was gasping for the air and her legs were shaking, she could hardly call out to them: “Hey guys, do you want some snow cones?”

As she walked away from the children enjoying the cool sweet snow cones, her stomach had stopped rumbling, her lips were still dry but wide open with a big smile. Her heartbeat had slowed down and felt like it could fit into it the entire universe. She took her every step with such confidence, she felt like a big oak tree. Her fingers were still sticky and wet, and her lips were still moving: “I am fasting today, I am fasting. I am fasting for the sake of My dear God.”

***

“Excuse me, could you speak a little louder?” With the kind voice of the moderator, she was pulled back from her childhood. It was an interfaith group meeting where people were discussing various faith related topics including their stories in regards to how they shaped them as adults. She must have zoned out in the midst of the last question.

“Oh I’m sorry!” she said, clearing her throat nervously and a little embarrassed. “Where were we?”

As her group-mates smiled at her, the moderator answered:

“So it was your turn. Would you care to share with us your first memory of when you felt the presence of God in your life? It might be very difficult to pin-point, maybe in your teenage years or later? It’s okay if you can’t recall the exact moment, we are just causally sharing.”

She quickly glanced at the wondering faces of her friends. After 20 some years, she could still feel the cold-sugary drips on her hands. With a smile, she took a deep breath before she started to tell her story….

“That’s okay, I know exactly what moment it was.”

Ayse Kubra Coskun, MD, is currently serving as Vice President of Boston Dialogue Foundation.

“Mom! Mom, wake up!” I cried shaking her by her shoulders, determined to stop her dreaming before something terrible happened to the boy.

Mom sat up robotically, opened her eyes, and as the contours of her room sat in place under the moonlight, she took a deep breath and urged me back to sleep. Alas, I spent the rest of the night wondering who the lost boy was. Was it my brother, the only son in our family? Did the dream mean that something bad would happen to him?

Although my curiosity almost killed me like the proverbial cat, I dared not ask Mom about the dream which continued visiting her in the following months. For one thing, dreams good or bad were never told in our family. Mom believed that if you put a dream into words, if you articulated it even in a whisper, you pronounced an undeniable invitation for the dream to become true.

“Dreams,” Mom often said, “should be left alone. Dreams are tricky. Everything you see in them stand for something else in the real world. Rats stand for money, money for gossip, crack and holes in houses for deaths in the household.”

So I kept my peace and never talked with anyone about the matter.

One day, long after that night, I was looking for a dear necklace of mine which I couldn’t find, having hidden it too well for my own good. As it often happens, if you look into all possible hiding places in a household, you are bound to find unexpected things—like your sister’s secret diary in the wardrobe or your brother’s savings under the mattress. But what are the chances that you will find pictures of a brother you never knew!

At first, I couldn’t make sense of those two pictures. One was a photo of a baby in his crib with eyes half open and the other was a shot of the same baby with Mom, in her younger years, leaning over the crib as if to place a kiss on the baby’s face. Mom’s face seemed so sad that I wanted to tear up the photo right there.

I went to my older sister instead and asked her, “Who is this baby?” My sister snatched the photos from me and reproachfully said, “Why can’t just you leave anything alone?”

She immediately headed toward mom’s bedroom, apparently knowing the hiding place. Then she stopped midway and replied without turning around, “He is our brother. He died from a fever when he was ten months old. And don’t ask Mom about him. After all these years, she still cries when she speaks of him.”

A tender feeling of longing, gripped my heart. “What was his name?” I asked.

“Leonard,” she replied. “He would have been fifteen-years-old now, had he lived.”

I wanted to take another look at the photos and stroke with my fingers the little face of my brother, but I dreaded my sister’s anger. She went into Mom’s bedroom and closed the door shut.

On the days that followed, I started fantasizing about what it would have been like for me to have another brother, four years older. I imagined us going to school together, his arm on my shoulder, me proud of my protective brother, daring the bullies to come even closer.

I imagined covering up for him when he came home late and he telling me first, before anyone else, about the girl whom he loved. I smiled as tears welled up in my eyes when I thought of those happy moments that never came to pass. It was then that I willed myself to believe death couldn’t be the end of all things. A sweet hope invaded my heart that one day I would see him, hug him, and catch up on missed happiness.

I wanted so much to share this hope with Mom so that she could accept her loss, so that her nightmares would stop tormenting her, so that those two photos would come out of hiding and join the light in the family album. But I never had the courage to confront her grief. I had understood by then that no matter how many living children a mother has, her heart will always mourn the death of a child.

One afternoon, five years later, I overheard my aunt talking in low tones to Mom. “He would have been twenty years old today,” she said while she stroked Mom’s hand in sympathy.

“It’s kismet!” Mom said, taking a deep breath. “It’s the destiny.” Her voice quavered, but she did not cry. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

After this, the photos came out of hiding and took their place on my mom’s dresser. Yet, Mom’s nightmares did not vanish. They continued to torture her. One thing remained a mystery to me. Why did Mom never ask, “Where is my boy?” It was always the boy? And during all these years, why hadn’t she uttered his name in her dream even once?

Every time I heard her search in the darkness of the night for the nameless boy, I wanted to whisper into her subconscious before waking her up, “Mom, you have to let things go. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t meant to be.” But I never did. ***

Tonight, Mom is having another of her nightmares, but I won’t wake her up as I have before. I watch her turn in her sleep, hoping that her dream, left undisturbed this time, will relieve her from the burden of her conscience. Tonight, I know Mom is looking for some other boy. One she doesn’t dare to own.

We were talking this afternoon about how life had changed for her and Dad after each of us, their children had married and left home. Mom didn’t enjoy her empty nest as much as one would expect.

“People always remarked that my five children were too much for any normal person to handle, but look at us now,” she said, taking in the tidy and spotless living room. “The house is quite, empty, just me and your Dad and… the memories. It would have been nice to have another child for our senior years, someone who would tie us to life with bittersweet worries.”

A wave of sadness covered her face, a feeling of regret I couldn’t quite grasp. Did she remember Leonard? But he still wouldn’t have been the child of my parents’ senior years. What else?

“It wasn’t meant to be,” I said insinuating on his death. “Destiny.” Mom’s eyes watered and her voice trembled. “Sometimes you pick your destiny.”

“But what could you do? The doctors couldn’t reduce his fever and…”

“I am not talking about Leonard,” she interrupted and then paused in pain. Seeing my shock, Mom, with great difficulty, told the story of her last child. While listening to her, I realized that a house cannot hold enough hiding places for the secrets of the past.

“When you were nine years old, I discovered I was pregnant again,” Mom continued.

“Everybody was so against the idea of me giving birth to that baby. Your father worried about our already strained finances. My doctor warned me about the difficulties of a labor at forty-one. Your eldest sister, who was newly engaged at that time, complained of how ashamed she would feel to tell her fiancé’s family that her mother was pregnant when it was her own time to have children. My friends told me that women my age often gave birth to children with disabilities. I felt so helpless and scared, so alone.” She let out a sigh.

Gathering her strength, she continued. “People push you to take one definitive step and leave you to bear the burden alone afterwards. It was hard for me. I regretted it the moment it was done.” Mom sniffed and closed her eyes, struggling for a deep breath.

“As I was about to leave the hospital, the nurse told me the baby was a boy. It was then that I remembered Leonard, my son whom I had lost in infancy. I know, it sounds crazy, but at that moment I felt as if the soul of Leonard had made a second attempt to come to this world, to my arms, and I had brutally rejected him.”

Mom couldn’t continue any longer. Her chest was heaving for air. I took her hand and stroked it lovingly. Who of us hasn’t done things that we terribly regret? Don’t the tears of remorse expiate the past? Shouldn’t we forgive ourselves as we are asked to forgive others? Mom listened, nodded, but she did not speak a word. She excused herself and went to her room. Tonight as I lay in the dark by her side, I pray Mom will find the boy in her dream, present her tears to him, and find peace in reconciliation.

Land in my country was state property and it was divided into collective farms like this one. Mom worked for the only state bank in our town and was expected to come out once a year and check the procedures on this collective farm.

I enjoyed coming here with her. Walking among the vines, I wondered how those dry trunks could produce such a juicy fruit. I suspected that rain and the sweat drops of the kooperativists had contributed to the process.

I loved the outdoors, yet the reason I wandered as far as possible from where Mom kept comparing numbers was something else. You see, Mom was a pure Communist at heart. She would not eat grapes she hadn’t paid for. And I wouldn’t dare eat them either, at least not in front of her.

“C’mon Comrade Liri, eat some,” her colleagues would insist. “Don’t be so self-righteous. Everybody else eats these grapes. It’s no big deal.”

And I secretly agreed. What harm would eating some grapes do to the huge harvest of this collective farm? Mom shook her head stoically to these objections while I sneaked outside to the tempting juicy globes.

In my country nobody owned anything other than the clothes they had on and the food on their table. Everything else was state property. Yet, the state was us, the people; so in a sense everything belonged to everybody in general and nobody in particular. This was confusing enough to make me give into temptation.

After finishing one big cluster of grapes, I started picking randomly juicy balls here and there, selecting the biggest ones, which were shining like jewels under the sun. Meanwhile I listened to the talk of the workers as they snapped the grapes from branches with large scissors. They were talking about some important members of Political Bureau, a top organization within the Socialist Party, who had come all the way from the capital to visit their successful collective farm. They were now having lunch with the foreman. The workers, it seemed to me, picked the grapes with diligence, as if to impress the PB members.

Later the talk shifted to plain gossip and I was losing track of it when all of a sudden somebody started blowing a whistle. Whoever was blowing the whistle so loudly intended to challenge his lungs to full capacity and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had blown his brains into the whistle.

Everybody around dropped their scissors and hurried in one direction, which was a good enough reason for me to run along, perspiring profusely.

The crowd gathered in front of the white stucco building. The foreman stood on the front steps, whistle in hand, brain intact, taking in the view of the sweat drenched kooperativists and the vineyard shimmering under the sun.

“Comrades,” he shouted when everybody had gathered, “something despicable has happened in our exemplary Kooperative. This wretched person,” he said pointing to a middle-aged man who stood apart, head bowed, not moving to even wipe his sweat from his face, “this person with no conscience, no morals, this degenerate was caught red-handed stealing grapes.”

All turned around to the degenerate, noticing that he still held a bag half full with grapes. I found Mom among the onlookers. Her face seemed a mix of unreadable emotions. Contempt? Anger? Pity? My mind, out of its own volition started estimating whether the amount of the grapes in my tummy came any where close to the amount in the bag, while I searched for the whereabouts of my conscience. Feeling my cheeks blush, I wished I had stuck to Mom’s resolution of not eating grapes that belonged to everybody.

“Comrades,” continued the foreman, “this man is an enemy of the proletariat and his act will not be overlooked. He dared violate the code of work, the fruit of his comrades’ sweat. What do you have to say?” the foreman sternly asked the red-handed enemy. The once-comrade spoke, without raising his eyes to look at the people who were co-workers, his neighbors, his relatives.

“I am sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.” His voice broke into sobs and tears joined drops of perspiration on the edge of his chin. I felt my spit dry in my mouth.

A couple of fellow kooperativists spoke in turns, shaming their brother and at the same time, trying to appease the anger that, like rain clouds, had started to gather on the PB members’ faces. As they say, wet wood burns along with the dry wood.

“Comrades,” Finally, the oldest PB member spoke as the whole crowd shifted on their feet. “We will set up a makeshift court right here, right now and condemn this shameless act.”

He asked the foreman to appoint someone from the crowd to take part in jury.

“Comrade Lavdi.” The foreman startled my mom and made my heart skip a beat. “Would you volunteer to be part of the jury?”

Even a thirteen-year-old girl as myself knew that the question was only a formality, because the Party people never took no for an answer.

The three Bureau members went into the building, my mom in tow, while the crowd scattered to sit under the shades of the two big oaks. The “enemy” remained on foot under the sun. Three wasps flew in a circle around the bag, trying to get in, without worrying about guilt or sin.

I don’t know how long we waited for the verdict, but I suspect it was long enough that we began to worry that something had gone wrong. Finally one of the Bureau members came out and whispered something to the foreman, who was fanning himself with his hat.

The foreman jumped to his feet and they both went inside again. The person closest to the foreman, who had overheard something of the whispered message, passed it around with no delay. Somebody was refusing to sign the verdict!

As people gasped at the news, my heart trembled with recognition that that somebody had fixed himself for big trouble. That somebody risked being declared an enemy of the people, getting a large stain on their personal reference records and would face grave consequences.

“That somebody can’t be my mom,” I remember convincing myself wishfully. “She hates dishonesty, especially stealing. She wouldn’t mind if they hanged the man.”

Yet, I couldn’t think who else could possibly break the unanimity that every decision required in our country, a place where dissidents did not exist. I couldn’t imagine the three Bureau members disagreeing. They even walked in concord, like soldiers in a military parade.

Finally they came out. Mom, pale as a dead woman, walked out last. Fear gripped my heart. I remember only vaguely what happened afterwards: the shock of the crowd upon hearing the death sentence, the pleading eyes of the guilty, my Mom’s right hand trembling and her transfixed gaze that betrayed disappointment.

All were dismissed. Mom and I walked home on the dusty road after refusing a ride in the PB members’ jeep, the guilty man inside. Mom cried silently all the way home holding my hand in a tight grip, as if the ground was slipping under our feet.

That night I woke up to my mom’s muffled cries and my father’s soothing words.

“I can’t believe it,” Mom was saying, sniffing, “sentence a man to death for a bunch of grapes! What is happening?” demanded my mom, raising her voice. “This is not Communism. This is despotism!”

“Shshshsh. Somebody will hear,” worried my dad.

“They made me sign the verdict,” she continued in revolt. “They threatened me. They said unanimity was a must, otherwise people would think that the Party could be wrong. They assured me that the death penalty was just to frighten people, that a higher court will overrule it and sentence the man to prison for a couple of years. But, what if they don’t?”

Mom paused to catch her breath than continued: “This is not what my father fought for in the war to liberate this country. This is not what they promised Communism would be.”

Both of them fell silent. Only Mom’s occasional sobs spoiled the dark silence. I don’t know if Mom became an enemy of the people that night, but she surely wasn’t a die-hard Communist anymore.

Weeks later we heard that the higher court did indeed overrule the death penalty, sentencing the thief to five years in prison. Mom never spoke of that day and everything went back to normal, except that her eyes never shone again upon hearing the victories of our country under the lead of the Socialist Party, and she never reminded me what a fortunate people we were to be living in the last stronghold of Communism in Europe.

Years later, long after Communism had collapsed and the land had been privatized, Mom came home one day with a black plastic bag in one hand and red-rimmed eyes. She said that a man had thanked her for a signature she had hesitated to give so long ago and had given her grapes in a plastic bag saying, “Eat them with a clean conscience sister! They are the fruits of my pure perspiration and of my honest toil in my own land under the sun.”

Mirkena Ozer is pursuing MA in women studies at the University of Georgia, Atlanta.

instead of a picture, multiplication table adorns my kitchen wall.

I have 8 arms like an octopus reaching in every direction.

Nobody can worry as much as I do.

There is always some stain on my clothes that detergent won’t remove.

I am a mother,

my notebook has dinosaurs drawn on it

the wall of my bedroom a little artist’s exhibition.

Me and my cell phone fall apart too often.

I lose my keys every other day.

I am a mother

and a pediatrician though I never went to medical school.

I play the cook, the nurse, the teacher, the driver, the singer

selfless like the rain, the earth, the sun.

I am a mother,

small things make me cry for joy.

like little notes that say “luv mom”

or sketched portrait with ugly teeth and fuzzy hair,

every line reflecting admiration and care.

I am a mother,

my heart deep and vast like an ocean.

I am a mother,

paradise lies under my feet.

Mirkena Ozer pursues MA in creative writing at the University of Georgia, Atlanta.

A conversation I had with my mother last November still haunts my dreams. My mom had been sick for several weeks with an unbearable headache, double vision, and facial numbness. Unsure of what could cause such symptoms, I turned to the 24 hour a day, 7 day a week on-call electronic doctor, “google.com,” typed in as key words “headache double vision” and started scanning the search results. My heart grew heavy and my lips trembled as I stared into the computer screen.

“So, what does it say?” my mom asked, a bit worried. I was unsure of whether I should tell her the truth. I didn’t want to scare her, but then again my mom was one of those strong types who wouldn’t go to a doctor unless it was absolutely necessary-by necessary I mean life or death.

I decided to tell her. “Well, almost every website says brain tumor. You should go to a neurologist.” But my mom was still hesitant, reluctant about enduring extensive medical testing. I thought I’d use bluntness to jolt her into action and I said,

“Dude, you’ve got to go to the doctor. This could be life threatening. What are you going to do, just roll over and die?!”

My nonchalant nature was merely a thin veil covering the deep horror which overtook me. “Death” is not something we easily associate with a loved one as dear as our mother. I could hear a disapproving voice whisper inside me, “How dare you?” chastised my ghost. “You can’t think your mom might die!” I shuddered, shaking my head to make the disturbing thought go away.

My amnesia was only temporary.

My mom did go to a neurologist, but aside from some minor hormone imbalances, the doctor could find nothing significantly wrong in her brain. So, my mom decided to go back to her usual residence in California, home to some of the best medical research hospitals in the nation, for a second opinion.

I will never forget our parting in the Atlanta airport. She was clearly in pain, slowly limping, hunched forward, head tilted downwards, and breathing heavily as even walking took great effort. “There is physically no way I can stand waiting in this line,” she muttered, referring to the security check line. She asked one of the officials if they could take her up front since she was sick, but the man just shook his head and pointed to the end of the line at the far end of the corridor.

I guess there was nothing in the rule books that taught people about mercy, so my mom took matters into her own hands, and just cut to the front, passing the first official without presenting her boarding pass and ID. The official called after her, “Ma’am, ID please?” My mom presented the required documents and then scuttled towards the baggage control, again cutting towards the front. In just a few minutes she was out of sight.

I watched helplessly. It took so much concentration to just think about how to get through security that she not only failed to initially notice the ID checker, but even failed to hug me or even look back and wave good bye. In thirty years we had not once parted without a good embrace. As I saw her place her bags on the conveyor belt and walk through the metal detector, tears began to trickle down my cheeks, blossoming into a full-blown cry.

What if this was the last time I would ever see her?! What if I had just missed my last chance to hold her close, feel her warmth, and breathe in her sweet aroma?

Again, I tried to suppress the unbearable and could hear my ghost talking. “The doctor said the MRI was basically normal. It’s probably something minor, easily fixable. She’d go see a doctor in California, they’d prescribe her a few pills, and all would be well again. She’d come back to Atlanta, take her year-old grandson to the park and push him in the swings while he laughed with delight.” I smiled as I imagined my son pop a large grape into my mom’s mouth.

That evening, my mom called me to apologize for having forgotten to hug me before she left. Her loving voice wiped out any lingering doubts I might have had. “Yep,” I told myself, “Life will be great again.”

It wasn’t.

My mom and I were extremely close; we were soul mates. We’d talk on the phone with each other at least once a day-until that fateful day when she didn’t call or return my messages. I knew something was wrong. I called the police, and after several hours of fruitless searching, they finally decided to enter her home. They found her passed out on her bed, alive, but unable to talk. She was immediately taken to Stanford Hospital’s Emergency Room.

A doctor called with the bad news, “She’s had a brain seizure, her right side is paralyzed, and she can’t talk or follow commands. Do you authorize us to intervene to save her life if her condition changes?”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I couldn’t image my mom crippled or on death’s door. I couldn’t imagine a world without her. I begged the doctor to keep her alive until I could get there.

Over the next few days the doctors performed numerous tests before finally coming to a conclusive diagnosis that she had a rare type of cancerous brain tumor. With an operation and chemotherapy her life could be extended for up to a year. But even in the best case, she’d probably remain at least partially paralyzed, and unable to talk or comprehend language.

I knew then that my mom was going to die. This time there were no more ghosts trying to convince me otherwise. “How could I have missed the seriousness of her situation?” I asked myself, ashamed. “She even told to you over the phone, in her soft, feeble voice, ‘I am dying,’ yet you kept closing your eyes to all the signs!” went my mental chiding.

How many Signs in the heavens and the earth do they pass by? Yet they turn (their faces) away from them!

My mother lay silent as the ventilator continued to periodically beep in harmony with each steady, rhythmic breath. She had been taken off all drugs for two days now, but still had not woken up. Many of the nurses thought it unlikely at this point that she’d ever open her eyes again.

Meanwhile, the doctors needed a decision. “It’s up to you, you know her better than anyone. Would she have wanted the operation?” asked the head of the intensive care unit. “She can’t speak for herself, so you must speak on her behalf,” he prodded.

I knew what my mom wanted. She had already told me in answer to my question, “What will you do, just roll over and die?”

“Yes,” she had said. “Death is not a bad thing; it’s nothing to be feared. Everyone dies some day. Death means finally being in peace, free from the evil of this world. If I had my choice I’d pass away in my sleep. And I wouldn’t want to live as a vegetable, either. That would be torture. I wouldn’t want to be a burden to myself or my family.”

Still, I desperately wanted her to wake up just one last time. I had to make sure she knew I was there by her side, that she wasn’t alone. I tried everything in my power to wake her up, including singing her favorite songs-something I’d never done before.

It was of no use. Finally, we decided to tell the doctors to move her into comfort care the next morning since we’d decided against an operation. That evening during dinner, however, my husband was suddenly overcome with this inexplicable “feeling” that we should wait one more day. It didn’t make sense, but maybe its providence, I thought. So we waited one more day.

The next morning, I was shocked to walk into her room to find her eyes open and her left hand grabbing at her blanket. Her eyes followed me as I rushed towards her bedside, kissing her hand with joy. “She woke up! She woke up! Can I bring my son in to see her? I want to make sure she sees her grandson one last time,” I asked the nurse.

When my husband and son arrived about twenty minutes later we held him up so that my mom could see him. Just then, my mom began to cough loudly, gasping, and squishing her face together as though in pain. The ventilator began to beep in response to the quick breaths.

“Look, it’s like she’s crying,” said my husband.

“Oh no,” smiled the nurse. “This is normal, sometimes the discomfort of the tube in the mouth can cause some coughing. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that things were happening for a reason. I had often chalked up happy occurrences to good fortune, never once questioning whether it was truly accidental. But this string of missed opportunities and unexplainable feelings surely couldn’t be pure happenstance. Events were unfolding in such a way as to ease the pain of my mom’s passing. I began to wonder if anything in life was coincidental.

On the earth there are signs for those whose faith is sure; and in your own souls too. Will you not then see?

No, the coughing could mean only one thing; my mom had recognized her grandson!

The next day, she was moved into comfort care so that we could be with her all the time. Slowly, she began to show signs that the end was near. First, her right eye stopped responding, next her oxygen levels dropped, later her right cheek became hot and red. I got this feeling that she might not make it through the night, so we left our son with some family friends and spent the night in the hospital. Despite our best efforts to stay awake, eventually both of us succumbed to sleep.

Interestingly, towards the morning, my husband saw a dream in which someone was about to die, causing him to suddenly awaken. The room was quiet; my mom’s snoring had ceased. Afraid that she may have passed already, he rushed to her, relieved that she was still breathing lightly. He then ran to get me and a nurse.

I watched her chest softly rise and fall. My husband began praying, while I held her hand, not knowing what else to do, nor when that fateful instant would come. I was in shock that my mother was dying right in front of me. But, I knew I had to let go.

The gaps between each breath grew longer and longer, until finally her chest fell and rose no more. I glanced at the clock on the wall, 4:55 am. She passed away just five minutes after I came by her side. If it weren’t for my husband’s dream, we would have missed her.

I am thankful that I was there at her side in her last moments with us. Not everyone is blessed with the ability to be there right until the last moment. My mom had been with me every step of the way, since the very first breath I took; and I was there with her until the very last of hers.

Still, her passing turned my whole world topsy turvy. I felt like a stranger lost in a foreign land with no way of getting back home. The irreversibility of it all really hit me during the burial. At the end, we all end up under a pile of dirt, shrouded in five feet of white cloth. As the grave digger shoveled dirt over her body, my teeth began to clatter uncontrollably, and I shivered as though I’d been locked in a meat freezer. My husband held me tight, trying to stop my shaking. But it was of no avail; I was inconsolable.

Just then I saw the cemetery staff plant three rose bushes on top of the freshly closed grave. My aunt pointed to the bushes, “Years ago we had planted a rose bush on the grave. As they dug it up, however, it split into three roses!” Three roses for the three women buried below: my grandmother, my eldest aunt, and my mother.

I stopped trembling and smiled through my tears. I think I’m getting better at reading the signs now.

Sevgi Zubeyde Gurbuz completed her PhD in Electrical Engineering from the Georgia Institute of Technology in December 2009 and currently works and resides in Ankara, Turkey.

Notes

1. Quran 15:75

2. Quran 12:105 3. Quran 51:20-21 

Halima walked into the living room and smiled at what she saw. Ahmet was sitting on the edge of the sofa deeply immersed in a book. He had taken off his shoes on the doormat and dropped his backpack nearby.

Although this wasn’t the first time his love for books had captivated her son-Ahmet had mastered reading two years ago in 2nd grade-Halima couldn’t help wondering about the content of this book that had kidnapped him. She placed his shoes on the rack, stored his backpack in the closet, and sat by his side sneaking a peek into the pages he was reading. She realized that it was an elementary school version of the Guinness Book of World Records.

As her son turned the pages, she saw pictures of the tallest man on earth, of the woman with longest fingernails, of the man with longest ear hair, of the woman with the most body piercings.

The book also displayed pictures of a man who pulled a plane, of a man who held 10 rattle snakes in his mouth by their tails, of a man who balanced a car on his head, of a man who ate 36 cockroaches in one minute, of a man capable of producing the loudest burp-you name it.

Reading the “fun facts” beside each picture, Halima was overtaken by a desperate wish to censor her son’s book selection from the school library. But how possible is that? As she felt at a loss for the right words to begin a conversation without triggering objection, Ahmet looked up and misjudging her interest in the book, he asked genuinely:

“Mom, which record should I break?”

Caught off guard, Halima rummaged through the pages with a let-me-see pose and decided to turn the question around:

“Which one would you like to break?”

“I think I could grow really looong nails,” Ahmet answered stretching the adjective.

“Goodness gracious!” sighed Halima trying to conceal her repulse. She looked at his face and resisting the temptation to snatch the book from him, she spoke softly.

“Ok, my son. Let’s say you broke the longest nails record. Who would benefit from it? You would spend your life growing your nails and depending on others for your basic needs, right?

“Your name would appear in this book,” she continued trying not to sound offensive, “you may earn some money, too, and then what?” Halima fell silent to let her question sink in.

Seeing Ahmet inconsolably disappointed, she switched into a softer tone so that Ahmet would not feel guilty for expressing his childish wish.

“The achievements you read in this book may look cool and fun, but are they bringing any good to anyone?

Ahmet, half-convinced, shook his head.

“Yet, there is a record I want you to break, my son,” Halima said, ending the silence with a new excitement that caused his eyes to shine with interest.

“Really?” asked Ahmet without disguising his thrill.

“Sure. I want you to break a record in …”-here her voice turned low and soft, almost into a whisper, as if confiding a secret or waiting for him to fill the blank-“… good deeds.”

Ahmet looked at her in disbelief. What kind of record is that?

“Yes, my sweetheart, there is such a record, and there are infinite ways to achieve it,” she said pausing to collect examples. “For instance, you can be a very trustworthy person who has never told even the tiniest lie.”

“Wow, that’s hard.” Ahmet said, the very thought making him blush.

“Yes it is,” Halima agreed. “But you can try your best.”

Halima decided that she should suggest more appealing options to her hard-to-convince son. “How about being a very generous person who donates all his wealth to help the less fortunate?” Halima continued. Ahmet couldn’t figure out how he could do that. His own allowance never seemed to be enough.

“You can open schools in areas of the world where people can’t even write their names.” Ahmet shot her a disbelieving look, “Can’t even write their names?”

“Think of a scientist who finds a cure to a deadly disease,” Halima went on slowly picking up the ideas along the way. “Imagine being a firefighter who risks his life to assist others in times of disaster. What do you say? Wouldn’t that be nice?” Ahmet nodded with a grin. He still had his toy firetruck as a keepsake.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Halima added. “You can be an influential leader who stands for justice and peace.”

“Like Martin Luther King?” asked Ahmet, as elated as a student who has found the right answer before time has elapsed. He had visited Dr. King’s home in one of his social studies field trip.

Halima nodded with an assuring smile and continued, “How about being a super environmentalist who keeps our planet clean.”

Halima purposefully paused to see his reaction at her last words. Environmental awareness was one of the mission goals in his school. As she expected, a sparkle of recognition shone in his eyes which poured into words in no time.

“Yeah, I can fight against pollution and preserve the natural habitats for endangered animals,” he said very confidently.

Halima hugged Ahmet and smiled. Of all aspirations, no wonder this one had touched the cord of his animal loving heart.

“Throughout history,” Halima continued in a lecturing tone, “many men and women of great integrity have made an impact on the world. Some of their names are written in books, some not. Yet believe me my son that no goodness, even as small as mustard seed, ever perishes.”

As Ahmet was trying to figure out how a goodness can be as small as a mustard seed, his mom brought his train of thoughts to a halt. She took him gently by his shoulders and asked out of the blue: “Do you want to know a hero of our times?”

As soon as Ahmet nodded, they headed to the computer in his room. Ahmet pulled up a chair and sat nearby as his mom typed an unfamiliar name into a Google search.

Haji (Hacý) Kemal Erimez. Ahmet could tell right away that the name was Turkish. Born in USA, to Turkish parents, he was fluent in both languages.

In 0.19 seconds 5,200 search results came up arousing his curiosity. Ahmet watched a 45-min-Turkish video in silence trying desperately to match the pieces of information together and process them in his little brain. He wouldn’t be surprised if his mom asked him to summarize the video content, out of habit of course. His teacher did that too.

“O.K.,”-he thought to himself trying to make mental notes,-“this uncle, called Haji Kemal, spent all his money for the opening of three schools in Turkey and five in Tajikistan. If only I had a paper and pen to take notes,” Ahmet wished.

He thought of asking his mom to pause the video. Then he dismissed the thought altogether because he saw on the screen an army tank strolling through some dusty streets accompanied by soldiers carrying guns.

All ears, Ahmet listened as the video host explained that Haji Kemal not only spent his senior years tending to the needs of schools instead of retiring and relaxing with his grandchildren, he also refused to leave Tajikistan during a civil war that broke in 1992.

Ahmet couldn’t figure out who fought against whom. Despite the urge from Tajik authorities to leave the country, Haji Kemal and other Turkish teachers had very bravely decided to stay and defend the school if necessary. Apparently this had made a deep impression on local authorities, some of whom Ahmet heard mention Haji Kemal with great respect in their interviews, referring to him as “Ata,” which as mom explained to Ahmet meant father in the Tajik language and interestingly in Turkish, too.

Later Ahmet watched a group of Tajik students happily smiling at the camera, showing off their gold medals that they had earned for their country in international math and science Olympiads.

Then the video showed parts of Haji Kemal’s funeral in 1997.

Thousands of people stood in rows under the rain to pay their respects to a great man-as the video host put it. In tears, one Tajik student promised that he and his friends would never forget Haji Ata and that they would work hard to fulfill his dream: serving Tajikistan to prosperity.

At this moment Ahmet noticed that his mom was crying too. She looked back at him and trying to smile she said, “See Ahmet, these Tajik students have found their higher goals in life. That’s a good record to break.”

Ahmet was overwhelmed by a strange apprehension that he was missing some important point in all this discussion. “Haji Kemal amca,” Ahmet thought, instinctively replacing the word uncle with its equivalent in Turkish, “is a very good person, no doubt about it. In fact, he looks like my grandfather with his white hair and beard.” But what makes him a hero? Why do all these people admire him? Ahmet wondered. Realizing that the video, which had ended moments ago, had no more to offer, he decided to ask his mom.

“Mom, why is opening schools so important?”

Halima stood silent for a couple of seconds to think of the right shortcut to simplify this complex topic.

“Long ago,” she said, “I came across an inspiring saying that I think answers your question in a nice way. I don’t remember who said it, but anyway the quote went like this:

“Whoever opens a good school closes a prison.” By the way Ahmet fixed his gaze on her, Halima could tell that her curious son was perplexed by the school-prison link.

“Lack of education leads to ignorance, which in turn leads to poverty, and poverty most of the time leads to many unfortunate troubles for the individual or the society. Do you know what the word society means?” she asked to double check.

“Mom!” Ahmet protested in a tone that gave a hint that he was either amused or upset by such an easy question. “I am studying and comparing the Greek and American Democracies for my social studies this year!”

“Oh, so sorry to assume,” Halima smiled at his sensitive scholarly pride and continued. “Sound education-that is, nurturing of the mind and the heart-is a foolproof way to build a better, peaceful world.”

Ahmet, still not sure whether he understood everything right, felt a peculiar desire nonetheless to go back in time, meet Haji Kemal amca and kiss his hands, a typical Turkish gesture of showing respect.

Halima, looking at the digital clock on the computer screen, realized it was getting late and got up to set the table for dinner.

“Ahmet!” she called to shake him from his daydreaming, “Why don’t you start training for your record breaking by helping me in the kitchen right away?”

Ahmet, smiling, stood up promptly and, as erect as a soldier before the commander, duplicated the response of obedience, “Yes, ma’am!”

Halima laughed at his wittiness and patting him on the shoulder she said,

“Then go wash your hands, my champion.”

Mirkena Ozer had her major in Turkish language and literature. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia.

from the memoirs of an inventor that lived long, long ago

I especially love when the spider webs shine with the sunrise. The little water beads on them make an extraordinary scene in the early morning. Talking about spiders, how they make their webs is also another beauty. It still blows my mind that they can make such long arches despite their tiny bodies. With the colorful designs on their bodies, spiders are the manifestation of beauty that penetrates even into the smallest holes of the earth. As I am talking about spiders, I would like to tell you a lovely memory of mine about how my admiration of them led me to the discovery of my life.

At the time, there was not much to do other than hunting and picking leaves and fruit. I wanted to do something else. For example, the skins that animals had on them were so fitting, flexible, and nice. We used to take them to put on ourselves; but they did not fit us. They did not cover our bodies totally, and they were stinky. I had a desire to come up with a new way of covering our bodies. I used to sit by the spiders and reflect on this idea a lot while watching them make their webs.

Unfortunately, not everyone was appreciative of the spiders and my interest in them. Whenever my father caught me watching the spiders, he used to mock me and reprimand me for being lazy. He always told me that we needed to get going to hunt something edible, in order not to sleep with empty bellies. You can imagine what torture it was for me to hunt. Killing something of beauty is not beautiful… I knew we had to eat to survive. But maybe I was not the right person to do the killing part. I could cook, I could pick fruit…

One day, when I was watching a spider, I saw a cocoon hanging down from the tree. That was it! The cocoon’s cover was what I was looking for: a large spider web woven densely enough to cover us up. You should have seen me when the idea first came. I couldn’t help but smile so broadly. It had been a long time since I had smiled such a joyous smile. I started running and climbed the hills. To get some rest, I watched the valleys below. Then, once again I took off, and soared down from the hill running; my arms wide open like a bird’s wings.

When I came home, empty-handed to be sure, my mother was not happy at all. “If you don’t want your dad to ruin your night, go and find something before he comes,” she said. Fortunately, I knew some trees that were in fruit just then. I rushed to gather from them to make everybody happy.

Later that night, I had a very scary dream. I was running, and then I suddenly fell into a pit where there was a long snake. The snake started to wind itself around me so that I was totally covered. Then I saw that there was a scorpion in the pit, but it could not approach me because of the snake. Frightened, I woke up screaming. My parents came in to check on me. After a second’s silence, my father said, “I told you not to watch those spiders too much.”

Although I was not really bothered, my parents were getting more and more concerned about me. I was growing to the age of marriage, and they wanted me to have sound spiritual health. The next day, we went to the respected man of God in the village for him to interpret my dream and to get some advice. He said, “The snake in your dream did not harm you. So, it is to be hoped that God will bless you with a cover that is going to protect you from worldly and heavenly harms.” This interpretation was definitely unexpected both by me and by my parents.

Soon after that dream, I talked about my inspiration to my mother, and she told me something invaluable. She said that our great great-grandparents had had beautiful things to wear before they came to this world. When they were sent down here, their beautiful clothes were ripped off. Now that I was thinking about making beautiful garments, maybe this was a heavenly message. Mom wanted me to keep this secret.

I did keep my hopes and inspirations secret, but I did not stop working on them. I was finally inspired by another creature: birds. They made their nests by weaving plants and branches together. That observation brought me to the brim of the discovery of my life, but I was not aware of it at the time.

One day, mom wanted to have a private conversation with me. She said that now I was not a girl anymore but a young woman it was time that I united my life with someone else’s. She said that the guests that had come a few days earlier had come to talk about that issue. They asked my parents for me. At first, I was perplexed to hear all this. I wanted to have some time to prepare myself for the idea. Not long after, the preparations for the wedding were underway, and I was very willing because of the person asking for me.

My groom was the man of God that had interpreted my dream. To suit his status, I wanted to wear something special on the day of the wedding, something never seen before. The days were running by too fast, and bothered by my inability to come up with that special thing, I started spending more time with the spider webs by myself. Mom thought that a gloomy state had befallen on me due to my prospective wedding. She tried to reassure me, calm me, but that was not the case at all. As my state persisted, my parents’ worries grew too. They did not want any trouble in this wedding.

Then one day, I received the first gift for my wedding, before the wedding actually happened. I was inspired to weave the leaves and stems of plants to cover myself just like the winding of that snake in my dream and the cocoon of the spider. With the joy of this heavenly gift, I quickly finished making my garment. This discovery was certainly a heavenly beauty that was sent to celebrate my wedding. With the new garment on me, I was so beautiful, and with the man of my life, I was so happy.

Seth Mette has a PhD in Aerospace Engineering and is currently working as a postdoctoral fellow at West Virginia University. He has a special interest in psychological fiction.