Kerem, a Hatay native and Turkish friend, drove while I sat looking out the passenger window, my thoughts blurring the line between reality and reverie. His voice cut through the mix of modern and traditional Turkish music that danced around our ears, with two simple questions, “Can I show you a place? Do we have time?” My thoughts ceased as I snapped back to the reality we shared, responding quickly without giving much thought, expecting a quick stop at the market. Contrary to months prior, the glistening heat of the Hatayan sun bathed us in its warmth as we traveled. Although our bodies were now warm, our hearts persisted in their frozen state.

Five months had already slipped past since the earthquake, which seemed to have kept us bound in time as the world continued onward without us. The car’s tires over the rubble-filled roads came to a stop. As the music subsided with the engine, the only noise left was the heavy machinery across the street. My previous assumption of a quick market stop dissipated as Kerem exited the car and beckoned me to follow, leading the way to what had once been a building. It became apparent our feet met not just another destroyed building, but the edge of his memories. Our bodies stood above, the balance being maintained by not just remains of rubble but that of Kerem’s history.

Peering down into what had once been, “I try to come here every day,” were the first words to drift from his mouth. He pulled a cigarette out from his pocket as he began to share more. Each exhale of smoke was as if he was exhaling the internal grief attached to each word. Instead of looking beneath us, we looked upwards, with the imagery of the building still standing before us. Sobering the harsh reality of standing upon multiple graves, I glanced at my shoes, maneuvering myself in an attempt to lessen the pressure of my body. Beneath the boulders and concrete turned to dust, belongings without their owners still remained. A small stuffed animal (that seemed to previously be purple, now black), broken legs from chairs, glass chandeliers, a wooden jewelry box; some items were discernible, while others remained mysteries.

Kerem looked towards me as my eyes tried to keep up with my mind by connecting each belonging beneath us to their previous owners; “I gifted her many things. Every time I come, I look to see if I can find something that belonged to her.” He spoke with emotion but not from emotion. His words came from a particular strength that sewed each sentence together. Many years before her body caved beneath the walls of her home as she slept; Kerem found his home not between walls but within her presence. He vocally considered himself one of the fortunate ones, sharing his life from early on with the woman he had planned to spend eternity with. Exhaling the smoke, a laugh broke through the calm silence, “If she saw us standing here together now, she would be so angry with me. She was very jealous.” My laugh joined with his, overpowering the noisy machinery tearing down what was left standing in the background. We couldn’t help but laugh as we imagined her standing on the second-floor balcony looking down at us, shouting and demanding, “Bu kim ya?” Naturally, one memory came to the surface after another. The debris beneath our feet transformed from rubble to grass; the empty sky overhead became a home again; silence gave way to the lively sounds of the Turkish streets; the air was once again filled with the aroma of local bakeries, replacing the taste of rubble in our throats. We were again blinded by the vibrant cultural buildings surrounding us rather than our reality being gray and torn; as Kerem spoke, it was as if the rest of the world seized moving onward momentarily and listened as we shared in his memories together.

Before what is now tragically known as the deadliest event in present-day Turkey, just two weeks after was supposed to be her birthday, now transferred from a celebration of life to a mourning of death. Laughing ceased, “The hope I hold onto is knowing she was cold. Did you know, if your body reaches a certain temperature, you go numb? I don’t think she had time to wake before she sensed the weight of her world collapsing on her,” Kerem spoke in a quieter tone, matching the wind as it brushed by, leaving the lingering feeling that nature itself was listening to life resurrected.

Fewer words were spoken. We let silence speak, knowing some emotions transcend language. All that surrounded us was destruction and the painful reminder, which we witnessed slowly being carried away by the clamor of heavy machinery loading up the past.

One lesson learned is that grief never truly fades; only the pain of absence becomes more forceful in its management. As the tires carried us away, my gaze remained fixed on the past, while Kerem continued forward. I shifted my focus to my friend, in awe of the humble strength that sat beside me. He swallowed his pain to spare others from tasting it.

His story is one among thousands.