ESSAY Tiffany MurrayNWR Issue 97
In Instanbul & Kerala
Ezra is sitting on a white chair. The restaurant is what my mother would call ‘chic’. Istanbul hollers outside and she is telling me about about orange roses. ‘For a long time, I made them. I sewed them. I curled the thin peel. I boiled them with sugar. I put them into jars.’ Orange roses. ‘You must peel the zest, curl like a rose in bloom. Then you sew them onto a long thread. Once, I sewed for a whole day and night. Orange roses like decorations, strings hanging from my light shades, my door handles. They helped. I was sad. You drop the string in the syrup. You are not sad any more. For a while.’ Her big eyes blink. ‘Eat,’ she tells me.
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