What can trigger a memory?

Very little. 
A Turkish salesman named Burak, in Russian - beatroot.
He had warm brown eyes and a playful manner. He sold the silver well.
He could empty my pockets with that glint.

In the coolest corner of my bed
I pull you together, thread by thread
In a Turkish night, beads of sweat sailing down my arms, my legs, my chest, my forehead.
First the easy part, the Justin Beiber hair they'd call it now. It was just hair then. Dark, slightly longer, it used to stick a little on the temples. Clear as day, they'd now say.

Then the thin line above the lip before the darkness of the moustache starts. The cheeks, the valleys. Then the tallness in the hallway as we said goodbye. The dark, short coat.
I struggle with the eyes and nose.
Look inside the kitchen. Start off far.

I'm making cottage pancakes as he sleeps and nana helps me mix. 
The light is pouring through the windows and I am weightless 
in expecting nothing more.
And now we're eating. He bought a watermelon, joked. I don't remember how to laugh like that. The way he closed his eyes and tasted homemade cherry juice.
He left a smell of holy inscents in the room. And I felt full and whole.
I pull him string by string but I can't pull him back. 

My acolyte, my catcher in the rye
My adolescence, my first lesson,
I still remember, 
                           though I don't remember why. 

It's like
The water boiling, the pan rattling
The gas fire egging them on

The steam uttering short angry
syllables
Driving the pressure home

The droplets hitting the tensing metal
Singing a rattlesnake's song

And so we're boiling, spitting and trembling
Each in their pot, separate pans

On and on and on

-T