Vignette 02/23/2010
 
In the mornings, I wake up in English, startled. It takes a while before the strong smell of Turkish coffee creeps into the room and I am reminded of where I am.  The paintings on the walls are my uncle’s; the skirts in the closet my aunt's; cats crawl outside of the door. Memories begin to swarm, crowding the mornings: this must be home.

It takes about 30 seconds for me to recognize my grandmother’s house. The furniture has faded a bit and carpets are not as frequently vacuumed. The dust settles in the corner and is forgotten, unreachable. I am in a house at the top of the stairs that cries colors and breathes yellow sighs like ripe plantains. Only those are the not the fruits that grow in this region. The only thing that grows here is absence, bloated like the sky before the rain, like the children’s moon bounce balloon.

In each corner of the house is a remnant of a God that built this country: Catholic crosses, Orthodox icons and Muslim fildzans. Dust settles on their remains and years pile up in layers: first layer for the loss of innocence; second for mistrust; third for growing up, unscathed by the war, the last generation of tree climbers; fourth layer for clandestine blood filling the streets because no one would claim her; fifth for the year when my aunt died.

That war I could not claim. I remembered it only in accents that could give you away, let them know you've been away, a traitor. The first time I came back, I wore their sounds on my tongue like prickly scarlet letters.

This time, I come with different accents. And this time around they are red badges of courage, testaments to new, involuntary livings.
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