It’s Thursday!!!
My wife has been telling me for the last three days: “We have to go on Thursday, if not I don’t know what we are going to do.” Then, “And can you come? I need your help,” she pleads, how can I ignore this order to join the war effort.
When it arrives, bags are at ready, trolleys on stand by and we hit the bazaar. I know the stable foods like potatoes and onions but some are from this region and are wild and wonderful. As well as the larger stalls, you will find individual people selling eggs fresh from their garden (laid this morning!!!) or bread from a small family bakery, fresh cut flowers and plants. In fact, everything and anything is here.
At the end I stop at a tea shop at the beginning of the bazaar, and take it all in.
It is an event, people are smiling, I say to the woman serving me that the “Weather is hot,” she smiles back. Cars drop off excited people who run as if going to a concert. Everybody is out because this is my neighbourhood’s day, some are carrying the world, others a few things. A couple of disabled people I had not seen before are helped on their way; this is a head count of the community to see if all are OK.
The street has ground to standstill, cars can’t move. A jovial man shouts at one driver, “You have a problem, your wheels are moving!” He looks concerned then laughs back getting the joke.
I turn to leave; the man looks at me and raises his hand to his heart. Ohhh I’m accepted, I also now have to make sure everyone is OK, I whispered to myself earnestly.
The Number of Ahmet’s Taxi
He picked up the passenger, and spoke into his phone recorder: “Hospital.” He did this for each journey he made.
On Friday he would lay out his spread sheets on the dining room table.
“So many people went to the hospital this week, it must be the time of the year.” He thought, thumbing the papers. “Town hall was second; that’s always a steady second and third was the town centre. Nondescript and not specific, he wished he didn’t have to count them.
His wife looked on and smiled gently. “Yes Ahmet,” she said, not knowing what to say.
The following week his taxi rides to the hospital had gone through the roof. “What’s going on?” He threw his pen down angrily. “Is it a pandemic?”
“It’s not important my Ahmet.” “It is!” She detected a faint tear.
The following week the kitchen table laid new; he stared blankly at the table.
His wife held his hand. “You’ve been ill.”
The following week was the same. “Where’s Mehmet?” He seemed to cry. “He’ll be late for his tea.” He piled on the potato, spinach and fried eggs. “This is good food, he’s a growing boy.”
“Ahmet, just stop.” “But I can’t, I have to count my rides.” His face a picture of pain.
“You have to grieve.”
He laid his hand on his son’s chair and just cried and cried.
