Remembering Ceylan

There are some days in your life so sad that the remembering of them will never stop hurting. 
For our family, March 28th 2010 is one of those days.
It is the day our friend Ceylan died.  
She wasn't ill or weak. 
She wasn't old, she hadn't lived enough.
She wasn't ready to die and we weren't ready to say goodbye. 
Our friendship was still young. We'd only just begun to create the memories we were meant to share.
I remember the day she walked into the Children's Centre.  Dark haired and dark eyed, she hesitated at the door, her baby son Luis in her arms, her blue-eyed daughter clutching her leg. She murmered something in German and I, always keen to practice my German, walked over and said hello. We stood there facing each other amidst the chaos of children and families and prams and right then I knew, and I think she did too, that we would be friends. 
She and her husband Torsten had just arrived in England, uprooting their family from Hamburg in search of adventure and fluent English. Perhaps it was that love of travel, the excitement of not knowing exactly what is round the corner, that drew us together. Perhaps it was Ceylan's warm smile. Perhaps it was an understanding of the shared restlessness of world wanderers.  
But I believe it was fate. 
As we got to know each other, Ceylan and I realised that there had been many times in many different cities and countries where our paths had almost crossed, when we had been in places a few days before or after each other.
But it took her walking into a small Children's Centre in a tiny city in England for us to actually meet. 
We fitted together, our two families. 
 Even though their children were much younger than ours, we enjoyed being with each other and spent evenings and holidays together.  Sharing food and campfires and dreams. 
Until the Saturday in March when they dropped their keys off at our house.  They were going skiing and would be back in a week. 
Only Ceylan never came back. 
Sitting next to Torsten and her children on the plane, she collapsed. 
 The plane turned around and the Gatwick police phoned us. 
Could we come.
 Selma and Luis  ( 1year and 3years old) were sitting in the police station because Torsten was in hospital with Ceylan.
 It didn't look good, they said.
The police room had a dirty brown carpet and bare, stained walls. Even on a good day it would have drained the soul. Selma and Luis were sitting on a red plastic sofa, so small and young, clutching their teddy bears. 
 In the end the waiting was too painful. 
So I  brought them back to our house and tried to help them sleep.  We weren't allowed to bring any of their bags, the police had to keep them.
 Their clothes and toys and anything that might have comforted them had to be left behind.  
"Mama," whispered Selma as she sobbed herself to sleep.
I sat watching the stars on that long, long night, trying to hope.  
Just after 3 am Ninesh texted me from the hospital.
" Our good friend Ceylan rests in peace."
And the next morning NInesh, Mia, Joss and I watched, standing in our kitchen, while Torsten, numb with grief, told his son and daughter that their mum had died.
 All day his phone rang and again and again I heard him say: 
" 10 years training to be a doctor and I couldn't save my wife."
Selma and Luis played and cried and ate pancakes.
I took them outside because none of us could think what else to do. 
Selma stood on the doorstep and looked up at the sky.
" Becky. Is Mama up there now?" she asked me in German. " Is she behind those clouds? Do you think she's crying."
" I think she's smiling," I said, " I think she will always smile when she sees you." 
The weather stormed for the next days.
 Thunder and wind and rain.  Ceylan didn't go quietly. There was too much passion smouldering beneath  her dark eyes for that.
" I think maybe somewhere deep down inside she knew," her mother-in-law told me in the grey, grieving weeks that followed. " She seemed to live her life faster than anyone else. As though she knew there wouldn't last long enough.
" I'm a bit sad," Selma told her dad, sitting on our sofa one evening as he held her and Luis close.  " I'm a bit sad that Mama's died."
" We are all a bit sad," Torsten said, stroking her hair.  
And he's right. 
We are all a bit sad Ceylan.
 We always will be.

Fuer Ceylan                                                                  For Ceylan

Die dunklen Sterne deiner Augen                                    The dark stars of your eyes
Am nachthellen Himmel                                                 In the night light sky
Deine Finger auf meinem Ruecken                                  Your fingers on my back
Werden zu den Nebeln ueber den Wiesen                         Are turning to mist over the meadows
Wo bist du, wenn ich nachts nach dir suche?                    Where are you when I search for you at night?
Wieviel Leben passt auf die Seiten unserer Tage?             How many lives fit onto the pages of our days?
Und zwischen den Zeilen                                                 And between the lines                                                
Eine Traene                                                                   A tear
Und der Traum von der Zeit                                            And the dream of the time
als wir Koenige waren.                                                   when we were kings

By Torsten                                                                     By Torsten

RIP Ceylan
14.11.1971
28.03.2010