I communicate with Fatma in gestures – signs and touching – and a few words. The other day I took her to the park with her youngest child. Although he is only two we did not take the stroller. Fatma was holding his hand. “Can you let him go?” I asked.
When she did, he took off into the open space. He climbed the fence and fed grass to the ponies. He giggled. We picked daisies and walked among the blooming rhododendrons. The air smelled sweet. The boy’s short legs ran and ran. Then we sat on a bench under the trees until it was time to go home.
On the way back in the bus he fell asleep on his mother’s lap. She tilted her scarfed head like a little bird and smiled coquettishly.
Her headache was gone. So were her palpitations.