I’m not Ready to Say Goodbye

When I decided to relocate back to Istanbul, I thought at first that all I needed was two suitcases like I had when I moved to New Jersey as a graduate student decades ago. I had this romantic desire to retrace my path in the reversed direction without extra baggage. Why not start a minimalist life where my roots are by off-loading the materials I accumulated in the capital of capitalism?

I had to find new homes for my stuff – my clothes, shoes, bags, furniture, books, paintings, decorations and jewelry. I started with jewelry. I gathered my necklaces, bracelets, earrings and rings on top of my queen bed where a tiny place was left for me to sit. I put the ones that I was still wearing and interested in wearing aside, along with precious or semi-precious stones protected in silver or gold. What I saw on my bed were stories of designers from all over the world and my memories. Then I remembered I wanted to select only a few to travel 5,000 miles with me which gave me a cramp in my stomach. I got tote bags to hide the pieces in, instead of facing what made me cramp.

The next day, the owner of a local antique shop stopped by to take a look at a couple of pieces I wanted to find new homes for. She bought a painting that was hung in my living room and asked if I had any jewelry. I said ‘yes’. I was wearing a hand beaded necklace for which the craftsmanship would definitely trump its material of green, red and beige tiny beads which were in unison with my yellow linen pants and hand-made vest. I was not wearing a David Yurman piece.

I brought the tote bags and poured their contents out on the couch and coffee table. She picked a necklace that was entangled with others, as if they were only one piece like vaporized water drops in a cloud. She patiently tried to untangle them and looked at my face which looked paler in the mirror in front of me than usual, especially in contrast to all the bright colors I was wearing that day, to say “They are costume designs. I don’t have customers for them.” I felt a strong urge to drink water. She gave me the advice to pack each item separately in small bags and sell them at a garage sale. I regretted buying them. I had spent a good amount of money to acquire them, but now. They seemed worthless. I didn’t have the courage to see that I was denying a part of myself who appreciates the design without thinking of its trading value.

After she left, I hung another painting to cover the empty space the painting she bought left, and I put my piles into the tote bags again. An hour or so later, I heard an unfamiliar ringtone. She had left her phone under a pillow on the couch. I called her shop and emailed her to let her know that I had her phone and she didn’t have to worry about it. It felt strange that she had to come back to get her phone.

I ordered different sizes of Ziplocs that night. It took a day for my daughter and me to pack them individually. I put aside the ones that I was not ready to say goodbye to; Ela picked the ones that she wanted to wear. I checked the jewelry box on the form when registering for the town garage sale.

When the day of the sale came, the wind and rain made it impossible. I didn’t put any sign outside; my door was closed. If people were shopping, they had my address among other places on the map where they could buy things. Nobody came.

Later that afternoon, a friend from sunny Florida arrived for the weekend. I forgot about the garage sale, but an hour before it ended, I was startled by the sound of the doorbell. A young woman, protected from the rain under her hood, asked, “Do you still have the jewelry?”

We gathered the tote bags and poured out the slippery tiny Ziplocs containing individual pieces. I was ready to hear, “They are junk,” but she said, “They are beautiful.” She was buying all types of jewelry – precious or costume designs and selling them to designers and shops. It was her job. While telling the story of each piece encapsulated in its own plastic bag, I realized that I was still not ready to say goodbye to some of them. I told her that I would keep some of them with me. She said, “Of course. These are yours. I will buy the ones that you could part with.” I took a really good look at each piece, and one by one, I made my own pile of slippery bags. I pulled them close to me, unconsciously guarding them with my hand gestures, which the young woman pointed out. We laughed.

After the woman left, I felt lighter. I knew that I would not relocate with two suitcases because I didn’t want to. I wanted to take some of the pieces of my life here with me. Not necessarily the valuable ones, in terms of materials, new and shiny, but also the ones that are deemed not valuable in trade but still part of me.

I did similar rounds of goodbyes with my books. Even though I could find almost every book online, I wanted to continue picking a book and opening a random page to read or take notes with a real pen. I planned to keep my favorite ones. My clothes, I separated and made piles of the pieces to be donated, going through closets again and again before packing.

In the end, I changed my plan – from packing two suitcases to adding a few boxes to adding more than a few boxes – during this round of goodbyes. I realized that what I packed does not matter as much as my readiness to let it go without a proper goodbye. Saying goodbye is not rejecting but letting go. A part of me still appreciates the bubbly necklace I saw this morning in the design catalog of MoMa, while another part says,

“Not now.”