A Star-Filled Spoon

By Edin Krehić

Mother was always worried.

“Ismar, you have to, it's for your own good!“

It was in vain.

Father was silent.

Then she would raise her voice:

“Ismar, don’t make me angry, I’m tired!”

It was in vain.

Father was silent.

Then she would yell, picking up the kitchen towel as if she was about to hit him.

“Ismar, I’ll spank you, I swear!”

It was in vain.

Father was silent.

The scene was always the same: The child’s frowning  face almost buried in the plates on the sparkling white tablecloth in the kitchen which smelt of pies and cakes, mother hovering in a threatening manner and father reading newspapers or grading his students’ papers brought from school that day.

Finally, she would say:

“Enes, you see he's not listening to a word I say, by God you can leave that so we can eat in peace. Make him eat!“

Father would speak.

“I will, wife, whatever you say.”

He would calmly put the papers away, draw his chair closer to his son's and slowly pick up the spoon. And the boy would suddenly liven up, sit up straight and touch his father's face the way he used to do when he was a baby, something he was never able to explain. Nor will he ever be able to.

The kid’s eyes would stare at the father and wait…

“You know what we're going to do now?” father would ask.

“No, no…I want to open it!”

Or if somebody else turned on the water tap when they put him into the bathtub to wash off the mud after he played football in the field, where he managed to find a puddle in the middle of the drought period and stick his head in it.

“Why did you turn it on, I want to do it…”

The tears would start rolling, and father would be furious.

“My dearest, I’ll give you everything, just don’t cry. I can’t stand that at all.”

Still, father would give in, close the bathroom door or turn off the water tap so Ismar could do it, the tears would stop, and smiles, tickling and water splashing would begin. Mother used to say that their son, although he was an only child, was too spoiled, that her husband was too soft, but Ismar still calls this pure love. Or father’s feeling that everything would not last long.

Even after many years, whenever Ismar opens a door or turns on the water tap, he remembers his father and he smiles, feeling that pure love. But already the next second he feels like crying, because he misses his father. But he fights back the tears, like he used to do when he was a kid, because he doesn’t want to make his father angry.

Father didn’t get angry over his son’s tears only once – the day when he left with the small backpack on his back, a water-filled Coca-Cola bottle sticking out of it. Ismar cried without holding back, suffocating in his moans, so loud that the hills would shake, but nobody could hear him in the mass of similar destinies.

Ismar always cries again in that same place, many years later. He looks around to make sure that nobody is watching, not even the butterfly swirling around his head, confused or even disturbed by the cries resonating all around. Then, in the mass, he first spots his mother, then other people too, a bit older every year, but they can’t see him in the moment of never-ending sorrow, their eyes blurred by tears, lost in the past which took away large pieces of their hearts.

Then Ismar stops crying.

Father would be angry. And mother would suffer even more if she came closer and saw him crying, at the same time every year, in the summer heat underneath a forested hill, where feet of thousands of people trampled down the grass which rose up again, unlike the people who were left lying there forever. 

***

In the beginning he used to dream about his father often, and later the dreams became rarer, the images in them paler. Mother told him that this happens with time, because the face, gentle and dear, disappears deep in the consciousness and emerges only sometimes. Probably when the longing becomes too strong.

But, it’s easy for mother to say that. She still dreams about him every night. And Ismar envies her. His father loved him. He loved his father. More than anything else in the world.

He was a teacher. People say he was a good one. Not just as a teacher, but also as a human being. He remembers, he was a just kid when his father would come home from the afternoon shift and immediately, before he would forget or get distracted by something else, he would say:

“Listen, wife, there is a kid, a good kid…”

Mother would look at him attentively.

“He comes to school in this cold wearing only a sweater, he doesn’t have a jacket, his parents can’t afford to buy him one.”

Mother would take out their joint worn-out wallet from the cupboard in the living room without saying a word and count the money for the jacket. Tomorrow, father would make the boy happy. He would make himself even happier. A few days later, there would be another kid coming to school in rain wearing sandals. And Ismar’s parents would buy the kid new shoes. A few days later…

War broke out! While they still had coffee and firewood, mother would put the coffeepot on the stove, and they would sit together and sip coffee, sharing their concerns for Ismar.

First they  ranout of coffee. Then they  ranout of firewood. Then they  ran out of food. 

He remembers, he was a just kid when his father would come home from the afternoon shift and immediately, before he would forget or get distracted by something else, he would say: “Listen, wife, there is a kid, a good kid…” Mother would look at him attentively.”He comes to school in this cold wearing only a sweater, he doesn’t have a jacket, his parents can’t afford to buy him one.”

Father volunteered for the army. He was rarely at home. And when he came back, he would soon go out again, gathering children in a classroom and teaching them to read, write, calculate…It didn’t matter that there was shelling outside. Or that people were getting killed.

 “School… to learn… to know… to remember…”

Ismar didn’t mind the explosions outside, or the fact that he had to study. Because he was with his father. He watched him write on the blackboard with tiny pieces of chalk. And then walk around the classroom and stroke the hair of some kids every now and then. Much later, he would realize that these were mostly kids who had already lost their mothers and fathers.

Children loved his father. Everybody loved him…

***

Summer was in full swing. So was hunger. And death. Ismar was standing next to his mother, crying, in a crowd of similar people. Father kneeled down with that backpack on his back, the bottle of Coca-Cola they had drunk a long time ago filled with water sticking out of it. He drew his son closer. And gave him a big hug.

Ismar could swear that he saw tears in those eyes full of love, sparkling for a moment like the stars he used to eat with a spoon when he was younger. He would still eat them, but there had been no stars for years, the shop where they used to buy them was gone, and gone was the shop assistant whose son’s hair Enes used to stroke every time he saw him in the classroom or on the street. 

***

On the day when a piece of Ismar’s heart was torn away, his father kissed him more urgently than ever before. Or maybe it only seemed that way. And he stroked his hair. Like he used to stroke the hair of those fatherless and motherless children. And he turned away, the backpack with the bottle of Coca-Cola they drunk long time ago now filled with water sticking out of it. He only managed to say:

“If…” he remained silent for a moment,  “I don’t come… don’t cry, it will be more difficult for me…”

Then he disappeared in the mass of identical destinies. 

On the day when a piece of Ismar’s heart was torn away, his father kissed him more urgently than ever before. Or maybe it only seemed that way. And he stroked his hair. Like he used to stroke the hair of those fatherless and motherless children. 

Mother now takes care of her son by herself, although he’s grown up. And the son, he doesn’t know how to comfort her. Only once, a long time ago, he sat with her to keep her company over coffee. They didn’t speak a word. After the last sip, mother said:

“Go out with your friends, live on.”

Ismar listened to her. He got a child of his own. And he named him Enes. 

***

“Where is my grandfather whom I was named after?”

Ismar doesn’t know how to answer his son’s question. He’s too young. How can he explain to him that they haven’t found the body yet. In the mass of bodies.

That’s why he points his finger to the sky and shows:

“Up, among the stars, they always keep being born.”

And then he lifts the star-filled spoon to his mouth…

Source: Al Jazeera