Children.  We call them ‘mine’. ‘Whose is this one?’ a teacher calls out, her had grasping the skinny arm of a little girl in the middle of a crowded mall. The girl, lanky and awkward tries desperately to hold back the flow of tears that push at her eyes. ‘Mine,’ yells another teacher, standing across a mass of children, ‘mine’ and the little girl is pushed through the crowd to where she belongs.  We feed the children, dress them, shape them and we say they are ‘mine’.

“Don’t touch my arm,” he says pulling it away from me as I try to get him dressed and I get angry. “But you are my Yusuf,” I say trying to lighten things a bit. “No! I am just Yusuf,” he says, his brows crossed and I get angry. “You are Yusuf and you are mine!” “No,” he screams. “I’m Yusuf…just Yusuf.” “Fine,” I say “just stop screaming” There is silence and then he says “You were just joking,” relief washing over his face, his eyes begging me to verify. I smile at him and he smiles back “I’m Yusuf…just Yusuf” he adds and turns away.

He sleeps between us in bed, his eyes closed, the veins running blue across the lids, his face so pale it scares me and I look to watch the rise and fall of his chest.   There is a breeze in the room, the curtains flutter and the wind carries across the bed to lick my bare legs.  I pull the covers over me and throw them on his little body.  He pushes the covers away, a simitci passes in the street and I hear his cry and then I know that one day I will no longer be.  That, here where I now lie, there will be only space and then I know and I understand that he is ‘just Yusuf.’ He isn’t mine.

• Istanbul

• July 12th 2001
• July 15th 2001
• Losing our Virginity
• Mine NEW

• The Dog NEW

• The Night  NEW