Being rich might be harder. Money in hand, yet unable to grasp what matters. Talent? No price tag. Love? Books, yes; houses, perhaps. I crave a house, space for my books. Funny how giving them away and letting them find new homes fills me with joy as well. Yet here I am, not rich enough to buy all the books or bookcases I love or stand alone. Always someone there—mother, father, husband, brother. Family, my first resort.
Some fear poverty, but I don’t. Not having doesn’t sting. Being rich doesn’t scare me either. I don’t see the chasm between the two. We always long for what eludes us—whether it’s bought or not.
My father, always the practical one. “A real job first,” he said. Art can wait. Stability, his mantra. Yet chaos, constant companion. Did he find peace within? I question. I appear calm, yet turmoil brews beneath—anxiety, fear, fragments of unsettled thoughts. I always carry Dad within me.
*
In two days, Spokane awaits. A ten-minute play, a reflection of Turkish politics, staged—a dream unfolding. Like family travels, distant journeys, art brought to life. Hotel rooms, outdoor meals, untraveled paths. Arguments over breaks, “Are we there yet?” Last year was a struggle, but this year, slight abundance. Money—a fleeting bridge to family moments.
*
Weeks spent in an intensive workshop, a long-held desire. Family waits at home. Husband, tireless, never voices discontent. He faces life step by step. Admiration for his calmness, even in his depths. However. As I stepped off the plane, my husband and son were there to greet me, their smiles warm yet tinged with something unspoken. The moment felt surreal, almost as if time had paused, allowing joy and apprehension to coexist.
When we embraced, I noticed that my husband’s shadow flickered, revealing a worn-down version of him that appeared only when he lets go of his facade. I couldn’t ignore the odd glow surrounding my son’s welcoming laughter, a hint of magic in his eyes that spoke of his resilience in the face of burdens too large for his young shoulders. It was as if he were part of a world where children could hold the weight of their parents’ worries, even if no one spoke of it aloud.
I felt a sudden pull of energy from my husband, a tether that both grounded me and set off alarm bells in my mind. Why must I lean so heavily on him? When his gaze shifted to the horizon where my plane had just landed at our small local airport, I swore I saw shadows of distant dreams. It felt as though the universe was reminding him of his aspirations—Hollywood, New York—as he focused on me, on us. In that instant, I wished he could share those dreams more freely.
A few years back, he went to Los Angeles for his story that won a competition and was being turned into a short film. He could have gone further, but then… my health… it broke in… stole his career.
Then came a rejoice: “I am almost as tall as my dad, Mom.” It was true. My son had grown taller. In twenty days. His tallness made my husband’s shortening more obvious.
*
It wasn’t until late that night that they admitted to me that my husband had fainted at work while I was away. His smile didn’t quite mask the scare on his face—the white hair on his nose, the dark circles under his eyes, and his posture felt more slumped than usual. My son’s voice broke through filled with concern, “It only happened to him once, Mom. He said it won’t happen again.” In that moment, it struck me how small we were in this vast world, each other as our only canes. My son’s fear amplified our loneliness, underscoring the challenges of being a family of three.
*
I’ve always viewed my husband as a steadfast presence, resistant to change. He consistently avoided doctor’s appointments, deflecting health advice with a simple, “I don’t have the money.” It’s a frustrating reality; financial constraints often shape our ability to prioritize health.
Just like the leaking shower in our apartment, I wish he would address his deteriorating tooth. The veins on his legs appeared strained. He said that on the way to LA for the filming, his varicose veins had caused the airport security machine to beep. There sure is something alarming in his calmness against diseases, and the fact that the health system in this country pushes him to that extreme further.
*
My friend and I were on this train heading to the airport. It was one of those moments when everything felt a bit dreamy, as if we were floating towards home after this workshop, for which I was away from home. Before we got on, though, we were chatting a lot with another friend who was dropping us off—just tossing around ideas about how cool it was that a train could take us straight to the airport. Most places in the US don’t even have that sort of thing, which felt a bit magical in its own way.
We were deep in conversation about our future plans, imagining all the possibilities as the train rolled along, the scenery flashing by like a quick sketch. Then, without warning, the train stopped completely, hovering over a highway where vehicles had also come to a halt. The conductor announced there was an incident—likely an accident. My friend and I peered out the windows, hoping that the cars we saw weren’t part of something tragic.
Two ambulances soon arrived outside our window. Health workers brought out a gurney, heading to the other side of the train, where we couldn’t see. The airport employees in our car crowded around the window to catch a glimpse of what was happening.
Comments floated around us: “There’s a person there.”
“A woman without shoes.”
“She looks homeless.”
“Oh no! Poor soul!”
It was shocking. I couldn’t fathom how they maintained their calm while describing something so upsetting. When the gurney returned to our side, I finally noticed the woman had no shoes. How did she end up on the tracks? Did she know a train was rushing toward her, or was she lost in her own thoughts or hallucinations?
A few months back, I had encountered another homeless woman near this same area. She had shouted at me, a moment of mutual fright between us. I wondered if they were connected in some way—if they were the same person, and more importantly, if they were okay.
Cities here? Dystopic. Lives float by, cheap like layered dirt on bare feet. Train tracks in the morning fog, around 6 AM.
*
I think back to the times when my exiled family came close to losing our rented places. The line between having a roof over our heads and ending up on the streets was worryingly thin. Surviving here feels like a constant struggle, grasping at every opportunity to keep our living spaces somewhat reminiscent of the homes we left behind. I often ponder how all the temporary homes we built felt abandoned as our spirits sought new keys for our changing needs. The family became our only home that we couldn’t leave behind. The others continued to linger like a line of lanterns floating on a lake of loneliness, hauntingly. As I looked into my son’s eyes and felt the gravity in my heart, it suddenly struck me that we could lose each other, our only home, very easily as well.
Homelessness hits hard. A paycheck is all that stands between having a roof and losing it. But health issues—physical or mental—can snatch that paycheck away, just like that. It’s wild to think of home when so many are one step away from being without one. One moment you feel secure; the next, you find yourself on a train track or the floor of a busy workplace. Unconscious. And away from home.
Burcu Seyben is an asylee academic, playwright, director, and writer of creative non-fiction from Türkiye. Since 2017 Seyben has been rebuilding her life and writing in the US. Her creative non-fiction has appeared in The RavensPerch, Door is a Jar. Synkroniciti, and The Manifest Station literary magazines.
