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Sunday
July 15, 2001
A
hot steamy Istanbul day. I
pour water out of a bucket and watch as it rushes over my balcony floor,
searching for the hole it will run down from.
Or maybe trying to keep away from it, I don’t know.
Sometimes I think we people don’t even know if we are running to
or away from the holes that will take us down.
As the water washes over the dust and the flower petals that the
breeze has scattered over the balcony, I help the flow with a straw broom.
It’s an old broom, the only type of broom there once used to be in
Turkey. It brings back
memories of grandma and summer houses, the smell of soap used to wash
clean the stone floors in large summer houses.
The drains are always useless and water sort of rests on the drain
making me wonder if it is actually running down or not.
If you leave it alone for long enough and not play with the water
and the broom, soon all the water is gone.
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