There are some gifts that start off as memories, travel a long distance, and shuffle around in a dark cardboard box with many other cardboard boxes of certain sizes, heights, weights, and intentions. These gifts thrown from hand to hand, from plane to truck, sit tucked away in a parcel carrier’s arms, this precious message posed as an object to keep to read, to reflect. These gifts as they stand alone are not necessarily what prove thoughtful—rather the thought, the time, the effort reflects that someone, somewhere is thinking of you. And the surprise is not that you don’t expect it, but that a single simple thoughtful moment can remind you of a friendship, a kinship that is sweet, that lingers on for years and settles into a lifetime. There are some gifts that make you miss yesterday and wonder if their presence alone is a preface for tomorrow.
Thank you Zülâl, your timing is precious, precise, as I’ve been reading Other Colors by Orhan Pamuk, looking to his words as inspiration, climbing into his swirling thoughts, his brilliant writing. The Museum of Innocence was a quiet title on my mammoth list of books to one day read and I’m humbled that you remembered. Thank you.