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August 24, 1985 – 06:15 PM

It was a late August afternoon. Since the days were scorching, it was the best time for us to play outside. Dusk hadn’t fully fallen yet; the sun seemed to say, “Here I go.”

My older brother and I were playing marbles. Since I couldn’t do most things on my own, he used to let me win, making sure I got to feel that joy. Sometimes, so it wouldn’t look too obvious, he’d win a round himself. But this time, I landed the final shot and won fair and square. As I was busy shouting and celebrating my victory, my mother called out from the house:

“Children, come in for dinner!”

My brother said, “Let’s go, you did great today.” He sat in front of me, grabbed my hands as I reached over his back, and pulled us both up. That was one person lifting two people at once—he was my joy, my sadness, my everything.

There was a mountain visible from our house, and I used to tell my mother, “Look, there’s our big mountain, and here’s the big mountain in our home,” pointing at my brother.

My mother would always reply, “You are both my mountains.”

Sometimes, while riding on his back, I would cover his eyes with my hands. “Don’t do that, we’ll both fall,” he’d warn. I did it again that day; his foot caught on something, and down we went. He looked at me, pretending to be angry, but then broke into laughter. We both burst into belly laughs, completely happy—falling down, getting up... or rather, my brother picking me back up.

August 24, 1985 – 07:30 PM

We reached home. My brother washed my hands first, then his own. He gently set me down at the floor table. To show my love and gratitude, I kissed his hand. The table was set on the small balcony. My mother had cooked green beans, served with fresh bread. Everyone had a glass of buttermilk in front of them. These were the days when we needed money the least. I finished my meal, and before wiping my mouth, drank the rest of my buttermilk.

“Bless your hands, Mother,” I said.

With a bright, smiling sparkle in her eyes, she replied, “May it bring you health, my son.”

My parents talked about their preparations for the grape harvest the next day—the crates, the knives, who would pluck the grapes after cutting, and how they would lay them out under the broad shade of the pear tree in the vineyard, just like every year.

August 24, 1985 – 08:15 PM

Suddenly, a figure appeared out of the darkness, walking toward us. As he drew closer, his face emerged; he was a young man. I saw a young man, but my mother said, “Welcome, uncle.”

The man looked into my mother’s eyes and said, “I am hungry.”

My mother glanced at my father. With a nod, my father approved, and my mother invited the man to the table. She placed a plate beside my father. The man gathered his clothes and sat cross-legged next to him. My father asked where he was from and why he was here. He explained that he had come as a seasonal worker and that his job was finished, but he was still looking for work if any was available.

My father said, “If you like, come with us tomorrow and help out. I’ll pay you your wages. You can sleep on the horse-drawn cart tonight. I usually sleep there, but tonight it’s yours.”

The man accepted. My mother placed a pitcher of water beside him so he wouldn’t have to look for any if he woke up thirsty in the night. Water wasn’t everywhere back then. The town was just being established; people said it would grow big once the train station was completed. My mother’s family had migrated from their village too, after the government declared it unsafe due to earthquake risks. They had only two neighbors, and everyone helped one another—just as he would help us tomorrow.

August 25, 1985 – 05:30 AM

We woke up early the next morning. My uncle’s wife was already criticizing my mother:

“You barely have enough food for yourselves, yet you feed a stranger. You know what people call someone like you.”

My mother replied, “Sustenance comes from God, and everyone eats their own share. That food was meant for him. Besides, they say Prophet Jacob turned away a man at his door, and Joseph became his trial.” She looked at me, smiled, and added, “No harm ever comes from kindness.” For a moment, my mother had placed me on the same scale as Joseph. She was one of the few educated people in the family, having finished primary school—there were no middle schools in the village or the town anyway.

By morning, everything was ready. Finally, my father lifted me onto the donkey and handed the reins to my brother. As I rode on the donkey’s back, my brother walked beside me, holding the reins. Two horses led the way, and we followed behind.

August 25, 1985 – 07:00 AM

We arrived at the vineyard. Hundreds of grape clusters hung from every vine; it looked like a bountiful harvest this year.

My brother and the others reached the shade of the pear tree. They set down our food, water, and belongings. My brother gently lifted me in his arms and leaned me against the tree trunk. Everyone checked their knives and crates. My father instructed where to begin, which grapes to cut first, and warned not to touch the bubble grapes. He raked and leveled the ground under the pear tree to lay out the harvested grapes, then showed the others where to start. The work began.

My father turned to my mother and said, “You two settle the belongings first, then join us.” My mother replied, “Alright, let Mehmet stay here too.” My father agreed, so I stayed behind while he joined the others. I asked my mother, “Am I staying here?”

August 25, 1985 – 08:30 AM

Then that man appeared again. This time, my mother was frightened. “Your hands are burning!” she gasped. I couldn’t see anything on his hands.

“Do not be afraid, my daughter,” the man said. “I know what you have suffered, the hardships you carry. Now, ask me for whatever you desire.”

Hesitantly, my mother replied, “I want nothing.”

“Speak, daughter, do not fear,” the man insisted, pointing toward the horizon. “I know how your relatives treat you poorly and withhold your land. If you wish, I will lift this mountain and place it atop that one.” The sun was shining directly into his eyes, yet it didn't seem to affect him at all.

My mother repeated, “I want nothing,” though her face had turned pale. “I don't want anything, uncle,” she said, stepping back closer to me.

The man continued: “Listen, forty camels have set out from a two-hour journey. They will arrive, take the apples from the orchard that your relatives kept from you, and plunder the land. As for your sister-in-law who boasts, ‘Look, I am pregnant again,’ that child is merely a guest for two months. Justice arrives; no one’s deeds go unanswered.”

He stepped closer to me. My mother shouted for my father, but no one heard her. She kept calling my father’s name, yet the sound wouldn't reach them.

The man picked me up; my mother held onto me from one side. “Do not be afraid,” the man said softly. As he rubbed my feet, he recited something under his breath. “Do not tell anyone about this for six months. After that, tell everyone.”

He set me down on the ground. “Now, go cut some grapes,” he said, placing a knife in my hand.

I felt my feet for the very first time. My feet and the earth had formed a connection for the first time.

“Mother!” I cried out, wrapping my arms around her. “Father! Father!” I shouted.

My mother hugged me, kissed me, and checked my feet. I was standing! My father came running—he had heard me this time. “Son, what happened to you?” he gasped.

“I can stand, Father!” I said.

My mother let go of me; I was standing on my own. I began to take slow, careful steps. My father gathered me in his arms, held me tight, kissed me, and wept. He turned to my mother, asking what had happened. She looked everywhere for the man, searching the surroundings, but he was gone—vanished into thin air.

“Wife, what happened to the boy?” my father asked again.

My mother couldn't find the words to explain. “The vineyard was good for him,” she said softly.

My father took my hand, and we ran together to cut the grapes, tears still streaming down his face.

August 25, 1985 – 10:30 AM

Two hours later, those caravaneers arrived and plundered the apple orchard, just as promised. That summer, we gathered the finest grape harvest of our lives.

February 25, 1986

Six months later, my mother finally told everyone the truth, ending her story with the same words:

“That meal had been good for everyone.”