My Favourite Day

Life is like a merry-go-round. It goes up and down then before you know it, the ride stops. I got to thinking about this last Sunday when I tidied my room and found a photo of my sister. Her eyes gazed back at me. Alive and mischievous. There was icing sugar in her hair and she was smiling. Things seemed simpler then. Yet the memory remained close enough to get me thinking. Not just about me. But about my family.

Despite the late evening sun slanting hot across the Istanbul sky, we weaved our way amidst the crowds. Arms stretched, our hands linked close. We were strangers in this country. The clammy grip of my sister’s fingers slipped, yet the relief of air cooled my itchy palm. Following our noses, we sampled syrupy pastries, and coated our tongues with icing sugar licked free from baklava and Turkish delights. We took photos and made funny faces, laughed and chatted with mouths full. Mum oohed and aahed at different stalls then bartered good naturedly with marketers. Dad winked at us and rolled his eyes. We were on holiday and in those moments, there was no stress or limits of time looming over me. I could remember this, though my sister could not.

A large van blocked our footpath and I swerved quickly to avoid it. The instant made me lose sight of my parents and I felt disorientated. Blinking, my eyes watered against the evening glare and I stood for a moment, panting. “Hafsa,” called my mother. Turning sideways, I could see her waving, gesturing to me. “Come on.”