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Mother… What could be warmer, more convincing than her arms? If they had told me my mother was going to die, I wouldn’t have wanted to be born. Her hands were white. Her face was so beautiful. Those who have lost their mothers will understand me. They haven’t been able to listen to music since that day. Every song contains a few words about their mothers. Whenever they think of her, they must feel like forgetting everything and running away to a very distant place, never to return. … Is that really how it is? If I surrender my memory to this flowing wind and never look back for even a moment, will encountering new people in different neighborhoods, wearing new clothes, heal me? Can an unbearable loss also be forgotten? … My mother, who gently covered me, is now casting intricate stitches in lace, inspired by Zeki Müren and Behiye Aksoy. And I am still wandering after the bluebird on the sofa where I lay down, exhausted after work. I must have wandered quite a bit. When I came back to earth, it turned out to be morning. I’ve grown up so much. Now I can get my own glass of water from the shelf.