When she had finished folding the laundry her sorrow got even bigger. While she was putting it in the drawers, she also put her sorrows into the drawers of her heart. That’s how she managed with her sorrow. She knew why her chest was burning. She had broken the mountain into pieces, into crumbs. She could not handle a mountain, but she could deal with the pieces in the drawers. She was able to put up with them one by one, but not all together.
Not a pile up, she thought.
She was always in an anxiety train, full of people reminding her of all the mistakes other people made. This train was followed by a homesickness train.
“I’m alone in this foreign land. My parents are not with me, I’m all alone.” By excluding her family of four, she sat on the loneliness throne. She closed all the doors, locked them, refusing to be called or touched. The keys were hers and hers alone, and if she did not let herself out, she would be inside forever. This complicated situation made her challenge her inner circle, and her husband mostly. Why didn’t he call, ask how she was? Was she his wife or a complete stranger? Was she a special person or an ordinary one?
She wasn’t where she thought, because she thought herself to be nowhere. She put herself in a small cell, locked its doors and destroyed the keys. She squeezed herself in, her sorrows occupying more room than herself. At least they were in drawers that could be opened, but Nuray had locked herself in the room between death and life.
She wanted to walk away, but she would find no peace as she would be with herself all the time anyway. Wherever she went, she would find something to complain about, always wanting something else like a little child, giving herself no rest. She wanted to leave herself behind, leave the mountain of laundry behind, free herself from the drawers, her sorrow. It was good to collect her happiness, but collecting sorrow was not good. When it was a small pile it was easy to manage, but not when it became a mountain.
Life was sometimes an iron jacket. She couldn’t move in it. Life went on, she was motionless. She was supposed to fall when she stopped, but she couldn’t even do that. She just froze. She was pulled away from place and time. Kicking away the stool, she hanged herself, eyes bulging.
In her childhood, she’d had to hang out laundry to dry it, but now she could just put it in a dryer and it could easily turn into mountain. The wind would dry it, indeed, but now the wind would not because it became heavier when wet. She just couldn’t carry it. She used to put laundry on her hipbone to carry it back in Konya. Now, the laundry dried in the green house at 69 Turk Street in San Francisco. The wind might be accused of not drying the laundry, but it was her sorrow that got it dirty.
It would be tomorrow again soon. The sorrow would get heavier; there would be more laundry with irremovable stains. The wind would complain to the clothesline and swear at it. Tomorrow would be today and today would turn into yesterday.