Geometrika Brown

BROWN
Mr. and Mrs. Brown, the unforgettable family of my early years in learning Eng-lish. The years when everything in our homes, from chairs to tables, from cup. boards to doors, was brown. The morning Turkish coffee we were so accustomed to, sipped with satisfaction, saying “oh” with our minds and savoring it with our mouths.
Our Nescafe, which arrived much later in our country. We never forget the corduroy trousers in shades of brown. Every night, our guardians in coffee-colored uniforms, blowing their whistles to protect us in our homes. For reasons unknown, all my sweaters were brown. The trunks of trees left bare in winter were also brown. Every time I looked in the mirror, my eyes and hair were dark brown. No matter how well we used our old metal belongings, they were always covered in brown rust. If the most honorable duty of manhood is to defend the homeland, then the camouflage of the national army is brown. The roasted chestnuts sold by itinerant vendors in the streets of Istanbul, a source of livelihood, have the taste of coffee-flavored chestnuts. The chimneys of our factories, the sacred sites of our development, were always rusted with brown. The pipes of the stove that warmed us at home and on which we toasted bread were shiny brown. Mr. and Mrs. Brown, brown furniture, Turkish coffee, Nescafe, corduroy trousers, guards in brown uniforms, brown sweaters, tree trunks, my eyes and hair, rust, brown camouflage, chestnuts, rust on factory chimneys, shiny brown stove pipes…