Farewell to Sarı...

I do not know where to begin this piece. A profound grief, one that had never crossed my mind, has befallen me: Sarı has died. There is no one who hasn't heard of our immense affection for each other. For those who haven't, I will recount it in this piece.

Sarı's original family was forced to rehome him against their wishes, simply because their young son developed allergic asthma. Back then, it was just me and Tatlı; I wasn't giving the slightest thought to welcoming another human or living being into my life. Life was more determined than I was; I thought that way completely oblivious to what I was about to experience. The family was deeply sorrowful. They were helpless. "I agree!" I said, "let the honey-boy come!"

I will never forget the day he first arrived. He immediately pounced on Tatlı, showing just how playful he was. On that day, a smile returned to my face. This playful, immensely endearing golden boy was also incredibly close to humans. To the extent that when a guest visited the house, instead of fleeing from them, he would insist on staying around; in fact, if a spot was made for him on the table, he would leave you in peace the entire evening.

I have questioned what a family truly is my entire life; I rejected the standardised, uniform family structure shaped strictly around a man, a woman, and a child. We became a family: Tatlı, Sarı, and me.

I wanted to capture every solitary moment lived with Sarı on my smartphone. He was the one who made me feel that way. Every time I returned home from work, he would dash to the door, and on certain nights, he would stretch out across the desk as if to say, "enough now, let's sleep." "Oh, what a profound affection this is!" I would whisper, smiling.

When Sarı was here, nothing felt too heavy to bear. If I was sad, he would leap onto the table, stretch out right in front of me, fix his eyes on mine, and blink constantly. "I love you too, my honey-boy," I would say, and then everything would simply pass.

Years rolled by. We moved houses a few times. I endured successive, heavy trials. Yet, they remained my absolute priority; "as long as they are well, I will surely heal," I told myself. I drew my strength from them.

As certain shifts occurred at home, I began to perceive Sarı's sensitive heart; when a new cat entered the house, he fell ill from stress a few times. We overcame these incidents with minimal intervention. Through affection, attention, and a bit of quiet conversation, he recovered in no time.

On 3 November 2018, Sarı left the house. He didn't return for two days. He had gone through the cat flap into the garden as he always did, yet he wasn't coming back. I kept sighing inwardly, wishing for his return. I even set about preparing missing posters.

On 5 November 2018, with my mind entirely consumed by my Sarı, I struggled to go to work. My mind was playing games on me, constantly summoning dark thoughts. An inner voice echoed in my head: "He would never do this." "Has something happened to him?" "Fireworks are being set off everywhere, did they terrify him?" "Please let nothing happen to Sarı, I couldn't bear it..." Bracing myself slightly against these echoes, before heading to work, I placed his cushion and food in the garden. I called out "Sarı" over and over again; he knew my voice, and I waited, hoping he might appear. Burying my tears deep inside, telling myself that no, nothing was wrong, I set about my duties.

That day, the Saturday Mothers never left my thoughts. What kind of an agony is that? Mothers who have spent decades searching for the bones of their children, resisting simply to learn if they are dead or alive! Death is the absolute finale for every living being, yet a disappearance—may no one ever endure that grief.

That night, a strange sensation, a peculiar chill enveloped my soul. Something urged me to go and look by the garden shed. Sarı had returned. Yes! Sarı had come home. My boy had heard my voice. I gently touch him. Ice-cold... Sarı is dead! Sarı is dead...

That night, my boy slept in his home until morning. My inside burned. I thought perhaps, by some miracle, he might wake up, clinging to childlike hopes. I could no longer confine my tears inside. My boy did not hear my voice this time. He couldn't wake up!..

I took him to my mother's garden, and we buried him there. I used to place no faith in gravestones. It turns out that when a person suffers a loss, the soil becomes a source of consolation. I learned this through a breaking heart.