When Someone You Love Dies

BY KCY

My hala died last week.

Hala was what I called my aunt, my dad’s last surviving sibling of fifteen who lived in Turkey.

I only met her once, by luck, like something out of a fairy tale.

You see, my father always kept that part of his life hidden. I knew he had a mom and dad and was one of the youngest but not the youngest of his siblings. I knew he grew up poor in Istanbul, Turkey, and that they were so poor, they had cats just to kill the mice in their house. I knew he was the only one who moved to America.

What I didn’t know was any of their names. How many cousins I had. What it was like to grow up in Turkey. If he was still in contact with them. I never knew any of that. Not that I never asked, but because he never told me.

I don’t know why he kept that part of his life hidden from me. Was it because he didn’t think I would care? Because I did. I wanted to replace that blank chalkboard with names. I wanted to fill that empty box with stories of his childhood. I wanted to meet my Turkish family.

Before my father died, he offered one tidbit of information. Not a tidbit really, but more like a wish. “Find Tayfun and help him.” He never told me how I was related to Tayfun, just that he was family and I was to help him after he died. I promised him, as you do, when someone asks you to fulfill their dying wish.

After he died, any hope I had with a connection with his family died along with him.

That’s where I was wrong.

The internet is a powerful thing. A very powerful thing.

After my father died, I published his obituary. Some people commented who I recognized as people who had gotten to know him the last ten years of his life. And there were some people who commented who puzzled me. A little girl who claimed to be his granddaughter. I didn’t have any children and my sister only had tiny babies at that time! Could this be my long-lost brother’s child? (More on this another time.) Another comment came from someone named Engin. He called him uncle.

I discussed this with my sister. Could it be? A cousin! Who was he? Where was he? Could we meet him?

Before I could investigate these questions, life got busy. Engin was forgotten.

Two years later, I had a crazy idea to take a trip back to Turkey. I convinced my sister to join me on a two-week organized van tour through Turkey.

Engin was remembered. Wouldn’t it be cool if we could find him, she asked.

We embarked on an extensive internet search.

Again, thank goodness for the internet.

Halfway through our trip, we found him. He wasn’t available to meet because he was traveling for work, but a cousin who could speak English could meet with us!

On our second to last day, we met this cousin. My dad is going to meet us soon, she had said, and we’re going to go to our aunt’s house later.

Her dad was Tayfun.

And our aunt was Hayrire.

Call me hala, she had said when she hugged us with tears in her eyes.

Elizabeth and hala

I never thought I’d meet Cahit’s children, she’d said through tears. We searched and searched the internet looking for traces of him, both her and Tayfun told us.

Do you know how you feel an instant connection to some people? Well, that’s how I felt when I met my hala. Even though I couldn’t speak Turkish and she couldn’t speak English and we’d never met, I could feel she was family. And it wasn’t just because she slapped me on my butt and stuffed some sweet Turkish dessert into my mouth.

There’s something about this invisible string, invincible web that we have with a family member. Even if you haven’t seen each other in a while, or if there’s conflict, or if this is the first time you’ve met, there’s that inexplicable feeling of love one gets in their heart for this other person.

I loved my hala even though I’d never met her before.

I never saw my hala again. I promised to write her. I promised to visit her. But I didn’t. Life got in the way. I didn’t make it a priority. Now, she’s dead. Shame on me.

I’m sitting here right now, looking at the red scarf she gave me that night, and I’m crying. I’m crying for the time we didn’t have together. I’m crying because her death symbolizes the death of the last connection I have with my father. But most of all, I’m crying for my hala.