First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
Illustration by Mary Kirkpatrick
It’s October again and there’s something in the air. Even just the word … October. It evokes something in me. If I hadn’t been born in June, I would’ve been born in October, a month of rebirth, rest and renewal of a different kind. Not boisterous like spring, but present, powerful. A time for the soul.
On Thanksgiving two years ago I was in Toronto, away from family and home. Seeing people come together made me feel a little lost and alone. Feeling a little lost I decided I’d go to the park, a place that’s always felt comforting. I brought my camera as a last-minute thought.
I meandered through High Park’s trails, all orange and yellow and red. Everything pulsed and glowed and still, I couldn’t find anything to photograph, I couldn’t find stillness. Defeated, I sat under a tree and pressed my back against its trunk. It was a day to give thanks, and there I was, feeling small, forgotten and ungrateful.
A family emerged out of the trails and into the clearing I sat in. There were two women holding picnic baskets, their hair wrapped in burgundy headscarves, and three men, one younger, in caps and wool sweaters. The light fell soft and golden over them as they walked toward the bench under the maple tree. I watched them lay down the checkered tablecloth and set up their picnic.
How I wanted to keep that moment forever and preserve the warmth of their family. I looked down at the camera in my hands and back to them, perfectly framed under the tree, wisps of steam curling up from their tea and dissolving into the autumn air. It didn’t feel right to take their photo without permission, it would’ve tainted the memory in some way. I didn’t want to disturb the image with my presence. I got up to go and the young man stood up and walked over to me. He held out a small digital camera and asked if I could take their picture. I smiled and nodded, and shared a little giggle with the universe.
I stood behind the tree I’d been under and framed them exactly as I’d first seen them. I returned the camera and asked if I could take one with mine as well. I did and was about to leave when the boy walked over again, this time with a plate of food in his hands. He extended it to me, fresh dates and grapes and cheese. Tears of gratitude filled my eyes. A woman called out in Turkish from the table and the boy translated.
“Come sit with us!”
The son, Ozan, was the only one who spoke English. He helped us communicate, and between hand signals and gestures, we quickly got acquainted. The women explained everything they’d put on my plate and taught me what order to eat things in and what flavours to combine. I ate slowly, savouring every bite of generosity and love in their meal. Halva, hard-boiled eggs with bright yellow yolks, pickled peppers and a black tea that brought all the flavours together and warmed me from the inside out. I smiled when I saw the box of Timbits amidst their Turkish delights.
The woman to my left started speaking and pointing to the bread, and Ozan translated and said his aunt Aida had been a teacher back home but had been forced to flee her country. Although her teaching had been taken from her, her passion remained untouched and she’d found a new place to pour her love into: baking. From bread to birthday cakes, Aida showed me photos of her creations with a beaming smile. She wrapped her arms around me and said something to Ozan. He said she missed her children who were still back home, and that in a family full of boys, I felt like the daughter she’d never had.
We sat together for hours. The men jokingly complained about how they worked hard to make money, only for their wives to go out and spend it all the next day. We talked about tradition and culture, and the differences and similarities between Turkish and Canadian celebrations. It was then that they said they were from Izmir, Turkey, the same place my dad’s family was from before they immigrated to Greece. My skin goosebumped and shivers ran down my spine. Something in my blood knew we came from the same place, we were connected. How deeply I’d wished for family that day, and how magically I’d found them, sitting in the park.
I shot portraits of them before leaving. A family under the trees. I walked home with tears in my eyes, reminded that home is never as far as we think it is. How thankful I was for the park, for a table to share, for October.
Emilia Voudouris lives in Toronto.