Storyteller Nights

Author's name: Kamal Farol

My father was right where I'd left him. His image appeared before my eyes, sitting on his worn wooden suitcase by the side of the road, waiting for a car to take him away. I still can't believe what I'd done, why I'd taken him off the bus and decided to go on a long journey with my father. But I think that this image that stuck in my mind also played a role in changing my mind. I got out of the car and placed the suitcase, whose contents I didn't know, next to mine again. My father, unable to stand, slapped the back of his loose trousers several times with his hand, trying to clean them his own way, but he couldn't. I grabbed his arm and placed him on the front seat, on the cover that was still in place, and together we drove off. Beads of sweat gathered on his side once again. He was wiping the sweat with the backs of his swollen hands. I lowered the car window a little, willing the smell of wet earth to waft in from afar, refreshed by the wind that had been flowing through the city since the morning. He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed deeply, as if grateful to be breathing again at that moment. However, he wasn't looking at me, but following the tired buses leaving the station. I lowered my voice a little and said, "Tell me, why are you going to Kars at the beginning of this winter?" At that moment, a cloud appeared on his face, as if he regretted getting off the bus and getting into my car. He tried to control his trembling eyes and lips. He didn't cry, but it was as if the sky had wept for him. A few drops of rain fell on the windshield as we passed acacia trees with their leaves fallen, road signs, blown tires, gas stations, billboards, watermelon carts, and factories. He said, "In three days, the storytelling nights will begin in Kars. I wanted to see my friends one last time." His voice suddenly trembled, as if the word "one last time" was coming out of his mouth for the last time.