The Memory Box
By John RC Potter
May 5, 2025
May 5, 2025
I am not a religious person. In fact, as a child I tried to avoid going to church on Sundays by running away from the house and hiding in the corn field. Later, as a young man I eschewed religion and considered myself at various points as either agnostic or atheist. Even though I may not have admitted it back then, I have always been spiritual in nature. As the years have passed, this sense of inner spirituality has been heightened, and is perhaps related to my outer creativity. Whether or not that is the case, what has become clear to me in recent years is the power of personal prayer--by way of both words and thoughts--to hopefully stave off misfortune and calamity of the worst kind. Prayer that will act as a talisman, perhaps of magical proportions, to provide protection for a loved one.
***
“Allah…protect her. Keep her safe from harm – now, always, and forever. If you must take someone, take me; not my little buddy, I love her so. Keep her safe, healthy, and happy at all times, I beg of you.”
This is the prayer and plea, the invocation and incantation, that I have recited repeatedly and automatically each day for the past several years. It sustains me and provides an overarching belief and faith: that the power of love and prayer will ensure the little person who is the most important in my life, will be kept safe and protected. Nisa is not my daughter, nor my granddaughter; rather, she is like my goddaughter although not formally known as such. The concept of godchildren is perhaps primarily a Western one. In Turkey, where I have lived for many years, I have never met anyone who has godchildren, although there may well be some. The term I heard used to describe such a relationship is ‘manevi çocuk,’ meaning ‘spiritual child.’ Nisa is certainly that and so much more. She is, in effect, the centre of my world. As with so much in our lives, it was happenstance and the merging of people and events that brought her into my life from her first entrance into the world.
If I had not moved from Bandung, Indonesia to Istanbul, Turkey in 1999 and decided to return there after working in two other countries during the intervening years, the two lives portrayed at the centre of this narrative would not have crossed paths. My best friend in Turkey, Orhan, married his fiancé, Zehra in 2013. The following year I flew from Izmir, where I was by then working, to Istanbul to see their new baby girl for the first time, whose name was Nisa. The name was special to me because it was quite similar to my youngest sister’s name, Nina, who had passed away suddenly of a heart attack the year before at the age of forty-four. When only a month old, Nisa became very ill due to serious health issues related to her lungs and breathing. For a time when she was in the hospital, it was thought we might lose her. Fortunately, she rallied, but from then on, she has had compromised health due to continual issues with breathing and susceptibility to viruses.
Although Nisa’s health at that time was a real concern for me, I had not yet developed a closeness to her because she was a new-born baby, and I lived in another city. As well, I was in the process of a professional move to Israel for one year, as the founding director of an international school. It was upon my return to Turkey a year later, in 2015, that my contact and relationship with this little gal changed completely. It had long been my goal to live in Istanbul again, where I had first worked as an international educator prior to the professional move to Izmir. Thus, after Israel, I accepted a job as a college counsellor at a school in Istanbul and purchased a small basement flat only a two-minute walk from the home of Nisa and her parents.
It was when Nisa had her initial and critical illness after her first month of life that I turned to prayer, desperate to do anything to help turn the tide of her precarious health situation. She was in the hospital in Istanbul whilst I was in Izmir, a city that is only a one-hour flight away. I flew to Istanbul on weekends during this time, to try to provide some emotional support to Nisa’s parents. Although I was praying to myself for Nisa’s return to good health, I felt like a lapsed Catholic about my reversal, despite being a Protestant. One of my long-term friends in Canada, Dan, resided in London, a charming city where I had lived years before. Dan was not a Catholic either, but often turned to The Sisters of the Precious Blood in that city where he lived, to ask for their prayers when loved ones were ill, giving regular donations for their divine intervention. I contacted Dan and asked him to make a request to The Sisters to pray for Nisa, which he did forthwith. In the next week or two, Nisa’s health improved, and she was able to go home with her parents. Whether or not the prayers of The Sisters of the Precious Blood made a difference, I like to believe it is the case. For that reason, during the intervening near-decade when Nisa has a particularly serious bout of illness, I have asked Dan to make yet another request to The Sisters and the gift of their prayers for my little buddy.
As an only child, Nisa has relied on me as her main playmate for many years, and this has been particularly the case during her many illnesses and absences from school. She refers to me as her ‘abi,’ or brother, although decades separate us in age. To make up for the lack of siblings in her life, one summer when Nisa was still just a toddler I purchased a Minnie Mouse doll for her at the airport in Toronto, on my way back to Istanbul. She was indeed a hit with Nisa, who adored Minnie immediately. A mimic since childhood, I created a voice for this Minnie, which delighted Nisa. She talked to Minnie and loved her often-humorous responses … albeit, from yours truly, a veritable ventriloquist! Then a year later, I gave Nisa another Minnie Mouse that was a little larger than the first one. Thus, Nisa and I decided her first ‘sister’ would be Little Minnie, and the second one would be Big Minnie. I of course had to create a new and different voice for Big Minnie. Then at least once each year I would give Nisa yet another Minnie Mouse, providing her with several sisters in the form of a collection. Each successive Minnie was larger than the previous one, hence, the subsequent names: Giant Minnie and Huge Minnie (the latter who was almost the same height as Nisa at the time); for both of them, I created voices that were somewhat different from the others.
A few years prior to the pandemic, in the summer of 2018, I made the decision to move to a larger apartment that was just around the corner from where Nisa would be starting Kindergarten in the autumn. Zehra planned to walk Nisa to school, and then back home in the afternoon. Although only a 20-minute walk between the school and home, I knew that it would be difficult for Zehra to be at a distance from Nisa, in the event she became ill. I asked if Zehra would like to do my cleaning and ironing, which would give her an income, and she would be only a few blocks from Nisa’s school. This seemed to be an ideal situation, whereby Zehra could go to the school to check on Nisa during lunch breaks and recesses. Due to being at school and around other children, however, Nisa was often ill and absent from school because she was susceptible to any and all viruses. Then during the winter when Nisa was in Grade One, the world was confronted with an insidious new illness.
During the pandemic and the age of Covid, Nisa’s Minnie Mouse collection took on an even greater importance because schooling was online. Interestingly, Nisa’s physical health improved somewhat during Covid because she was not at school picking up various viruses. The downside of the online schooling was that Nisa had no or little contact with other children and was literally bored out of her gourd! She wanted me to be coming over for daily visits, which I would do after my online workday finished. I decided that Nisa needed additional lessons, because it was clear to me that she was smart as a whip and tended to become bored easily. I began to create a series of lessons for her and had purchased an easel-style white board that we could use in her family’s living room. I knew the greatest gift that I could give to Nisa in terms of lessons was to teach her English, which she was already studying in school but at a very basic level. Over the course of the past few years, I have been pleased that Nisa’s level of English has become quite proficient due to those lessons.
I did not only visit Nisa and her family at their home; there were reciprocal visits from them. Before, during, and after the pandemic, Nisa and her family would come to visit me on a regular basis, usually a few times a week. Nisa and I would play games, do activities such as drawing and colouring pictures, or additional lessons, be it English or otherwise. Years before I had said to my little friend that I would keep lessons we did and pictures we drew together in a collection that I referred to as ‘the memory box.’ Over the past several years that box has become quite full. Eventually, I will give it to Nisa as a memento of our shared times together, which was particularly important during Covid when everyone’s lives were disrupted and uncertain.
Dealing with the often-precarious uncertainty of Nisa’s health, as well as the reality of Covid during the pandemic, the constant concern added much stress to her parents and to me. A brief period of good health would be followed by a trip to the hospital, with Nisa having a high fever or other symptoms. I sometimes accompanied Orhan and Zehra when they took Nisa to the hospital, but it was usually in the middle of the night. I would find out about it the next morning. The doctors indicated to Nisa’s parents that her health issues were exacerbated by Covid, but children were not being vaccinated. I lived in a state of constant vigilance; praying when Nisa was ill and in the hospital or recuperating at home, or wondering when the next health crisis would occur during a brief respite of good health.
One winter’s evening early in 2022, I experienced one of the darkest moments in my life. Nisa had been ill once again, but after treatment at the hospital, she was able to go home. Orhan went back to work after taking Nisa and her mother home from the hospital. I have often wondered how he managed to work at a demanding job and yet often have insufficient sleep due to trips to the hospital with Nisa. On this particular evening, there was a heavy snowfall, and the streets were icy. Nisa had wanted me to come for a visit, despite not feeling well after the trip to the emergency room at the hospital. Due to the weather, I declined going over to her house, which was a cause of great grief and guilt to me subsequently. Then later that evening I sent a text to Nisa’s mother, who did not respond. Thus, after a short time, I called Zehra on Whatsapp. For a brief instant I could see her standing in what looked to be a hospital room; she was wearing her coat and hat, and she looked distressed. Then the screen of the phone went black. I tried calling her again, but the line was closed. I sent a text message to Orhan at work, to which he did not respond. When I tried calling him, his mobile phone was closed too.
In that ‘perfect storm’ of an evening, my mind raced. Despite the snowstorm, I decided to walk to where Orhan’s parents lived, which was near to his place. From the street I could see that there were no lights on in the apartment, and no one answered the doorbell when I rang from outside. Orhan’s sister and her husband also lived nearby, and I hastened to her apartment building, but there was no one at home there either. I tried calling Orhan’s and Zehra’s telephone numbers again, to no avail. I was frantic with worry and did not know what to do. My heart was racing, and my mind was like a movie screen, playing a silent film with flickering images about what possibly could have happened. I decided that I could only go home and wait for the inevitable. Approximately halfway home, as I walked up a steep and ice-slicked street, I decided to call my sister, Barb, in Canada. She had visited me in Istanbul previously, and Nisa knew and adored her, not least of all because they were both devoted cat lovers.
When Barb’s voice came on the telephone, I could barely put my words and thoughts together. I told her that I thought Nisa must be very ill again and explained how I could not get through to anyone. I sat down on a low wall beside a parking lot and, although not normally a crier, I was distraught, and the tears started to flow. Sobbing, I told Barb that if anything happened to Nisa, I could not go on. Barb asked me what I was going to do, and where was I going? I told her that I could only go home and wait. We ended the call and I started to trudge home. The dark and cold winter’s evening reflected my inner turmoil. It came to me then that Nisa, my little buddy, meant more to me than my own life. She was my life. I knew then how parents and grandparents must feel when they are presented with the loss, or potential loss, of a beloved child.
The irony is that Nisa was not ill that evening, or at least she was not in the hospital. Zehra had taken Nisa to a pet shoppe to cheer her up, because she wanted to see some baby kittens that were there. It was only a fluke that Zehra had looked like a deer-in-the-headlights, and that the setting appeared rather hospital-like. In line with the ‘perfect storm’ scenario, Zehra’s mobile phone needed to be charged. It was the same situation with Orhan at work. He did not have his phone charger with him and his mobile too was not operating. However, I believe everything happens for a reason. That dark night of the soul confirmed and reaffirmed for me that my life and happiness revolve around a little gal who ended up at the centre of my world by a confluence of fate and fortuity.
Although recently Nisa’s bouts of ill health have not been as alarming, and the hope is that she will grow out of it, my day starts and ends with thoughts of her. This constant concern has been exacerbated by not only Covid, but the reality of living in earthquake-prone Turkey. In September 2019, I had severe lower back pain and did not go to work on the same day that there was a quite severe earthquake. Fortunately, there was no loss of life, and it was not as devastating as the earthquakes in Turkey in 1999 and 2023, both of which I experienced. However, as I lay on the sofa that particular early autumn day and felt the heavy tremors of the earthquake, my first thought was of Nisa.
When the shaking stopped, I immediately called Zehra and asked if she and Nisa were fine. They were of course extremely frightened, particularly due to living in a high rise. I spoke with Nisa and told her not to worry and that I was on my way over. Although my lower back was causing me quite significant pain, I barely felt it on the walk to Nisa’s home. When I arrived, Zehra had the television on and was watching the news coverage of the earthquake. It was reassuring to know there had been no loss of life due to the earthquake, but the unknown factor of course lay in the uncertainty of whether or not there would be subsequent tremors. Not wanting Nisa to be worried any more than necessary, I told Zehra to turn off the television. To distract Nisa, I suggested we play games that afternoon. Due to Zehra’s obvious and natural fretting about the earthquake, it was my goal to be as tranquil and reassuring as usual. I was glad when Orhan arrived home from work because I knew that his calm presence would put Nisa’s mind at ease, and hopefully keep her from thinking about the possibility of other earthquakes.
In February of this year when earthquakes in Turkey and Syria caused great devastation and many deaths, my first thought was not of me but of my little buddy, Nisa. I share an affinity with parents and grandparents around the world, who wonder how to protect beloved children from natural disasters. During the pandemic, as well as before and beyond, I have turned to prayer in an attempt to protect the life of a little gal who is the centre of my universe. However, the more recent and more ruinous danger is lying in wait: the prospect of a cataclysmic earthquake in the city of Istanbul, and the effect of such a disaster on its approximately sixteen million inhabitants. When I think of that possibility, my mind of course goes first to Nisa. I recite one of my persistent prayers, that I first uttered at the advent of the pandemic as a plea to the gods above and the powers that be, which always ends with the following proclamation: “We’ll get through this, honey, I promise. I promise!” The memory box that has served as a container of activities and artefacts, holds more than physical items; rather it is a vessel of thoughts, faith, and hope, that were accumulated as a testament to the power of prayer and love for my ‘çocuk manevi,’ my spiritual child.
This is the prayer and plea, the invocation and incantation, that I have recited repeatedly and automatically each day for the past several years. It sustains me and provides an overarching belief and faith: that the power of love and prayer will ensure the little person who is the most important in my life, will be kept safe and protected. Nisa is not my daughter, nor my granddaughter; rather, she is like my goddaughter although not formally known as such. The concept of godchildren is perhaps primarily a Western one. In Turkey, where I have lived for many years, I have never met anyone who has godchildren, although there may well be some. The term I heard used to describe such a relationship is ‘manevi çocuk,’ meaning ‘spiritual child.’ Nisa is certainly that and so much more. She is, in effect, the centre of my world. As with so much in our lives, it was happenstance and the merging of people and events that brought her into my life from her first entrance into the world.
If I had not moved from Bandung, Indonesia to Istanbul, Turkey in 1999 and decided to return there after working in two other countries during the intervening years, the two lives portrayed at the centre of this narrative would not have crossed paths. My best friend in Turkey, Orhan, married his fiancé, Zehra in 2013. The following year I flew from Izmir, where I was by then working, to Istanbul to see their new baby girl for the first time, whose name was Nisa. The name was special to me because it was quite similar to my youngest sister’s name, Nina, who had passed away suddenly of a heart attack the year before at the age of forty-four. When only a month old, Nisa became very ill due to serious health issues related to her lungs and breathing. For a time when she was in the hospital, it was thought we might lose her. Fortunately, she rallied, but from then on, she has had compromised health due to continual issues with breathing and susceptibility to viruses.
Although Nisa’s health at that time was a real concern for me, I had not yet developed a closeness to her because she was a new-born baby, and I lived in another city. As well, I was in the process of a professional move to Israel for one year, as the founding director of an international school. It was upon my return to Turkey a year later, in 2015, that my contact and relationship with this little gal changed completely. It had long been my goal to live in Istanbul again, where I had first worked as an international educator prior to the professional move to Izmir. Thus, after Israel, I accepted a job as a college counsellor at a school in Istanbul and purchased a small basement flat only a two-minute walk from the home of Nisa and her parents.
It was when Nisa had her initial and critical illness after her first month of life that I turned to prayer, desperate to do anything to help turn the tide of her precarious health situation. She was in the hospital in Istanbul whilst I was in Izmir, a city that is only a one-hour flight away. I flew to Istanbul on weekends during this time, to try to provide some emotional support to Nisa’s parents. Although I was praying to myself for Nisa’s return to good health, I felt like a lapsed Catholic about my reversal, despite being a Protestant. One of my long-term friends in Canada, Dan, resided in London, a charming city where I had lived years before. Dan was not a Catholic either, but often turned to The Sisters of the Precious Blood in that city where he lived, to ask for their prayers when loved ones were ill, giving regular donations for their divine intervention. I contacted Dan and asked him to make a request to The Sisters to pray for Nisa, which he did forthwith. In the next week or two, Nisa’s health improved, and she was able to go home with her parents. Whether or not the prayers of The Sisters of the Precious Blood made a difference, I like to believe it is the case. For that reason, during the intervening near-decade when Nisa has a particularly serious bout of illness, I have asked Dan to make yet another request to The Sisters and the gift of their prayers for my little buddy.
As an only child, Nisa has relied on me as her main playmate for many years, and this has been particularly the case during her many illnesses and absences from school. She refers to me as her ‘abi,’ or brother, although decades separate us in age. To make up for the lack of siblings in her life, one summer when Nisa was still just a toddler I purchased a Minnie Mouse doll for her at the airport in Toronto, on my way back to Istanbul. She was indeed a hit with Nisa, who adored Minnie immediately. A mimic since childhood, I created a voice for this Minnie, which delighted Nisa. She talked to Minnie and loved her often-humorous responses … albeit, from yours truly, a veritable ventriloquist! Then a year later, I gave Nisa another Minnie Mouse that was a little larger than the first one. Thus, Nisa and I decided her first ‘sister’ would be Little Minnie, and the second one would be Big Minnie. I of course had to create a new and different voice for Big Minnie. Then at least once each year I would give Nisa yet another Minnie Mouse, providing her with several sisters in the form of a collection. Each successive Minnie was larger than the previous one, hence, the subsequent names: Giant Minnie and Huge Minnie (the latter who was almost the same height as Nisa at the time); for both of them, I created voices that were somewhat different from the others.
A few years prior to the pandemic, in the summer of 2018, I made the decision to move to a larger apartment that was just around the corner from where Nisa would be starting Kindergarten in the autumn. Zehra planned to walk Nisa to school, and then back home in the afternoon. Although only a 20-minute walk between the school and home, I knew that it would be difficult for Zehra to be at a distance from Nisa, in the event she became ill. I asked if Zehra would like to do my cleaning and ironing, which would give her an income, and she would be only a few blocks from Nisa’s school. This seemed to be an ideal situation, whereby Zehra could go to the school to check on Nisa during lunch breaks and recesses. Due to being at school and around other children, however, Nisa was often ill and absent from school because she was susceptible to any and all viruses. Then during the winter when Nisa was in Grade One, the world was confronted with an insidious new illness.
During the pandemic and the age of Covid, Nisa’s Minnie Mouse collection took on an even greater importance because schooling was online. Interestingly, Nisa’s physical health improved somewhat during Covid because she was not at school picking up various viruses. The downside of the online schooling was that Nisa had no or little contact with other children and was literally bored out of her gourd! She wanted me to be coming over for daily visits, which I would do after my online workday finished. I decided that Nisa needed additional lessons, because it was clear to me that she was smart as a whip and tended to become bored easily. I began to create a series of lessons for her and had purchased an easel-style white board that we could use in her family’s living room. I knew the greatest gift that I could give to Nisa in terms of lessons was to teach her English, which she was already studying in school but at a very basic level. Over the course of the past few years, I have been pleased that Nisa’s level of English has become quite proficient due to those lessons.
I did not only visit Nisa and her family at their home; there were reciprocal visits from them. Before, during, and after the pandemic, Nisa and her family would come to visit me on a regular basis, usually a few times a week. Nisa and I would play games, do activities such as drawing and colouring pictures, or additional lessons, be it English or otherwise. Years before I had said to my little friend that I would keep lessons we did and pictures we drew together in a collection that I referred to as ‘the memory box.’ Over the past several years that box has become quite full. Eventually, I will give it to Nisa as a memento of our shared times together, which was particularly important during Covid when everyone’s lives were disrupted and uncertain.
Dealing with the often-precarious uncertainty of Nisa’s health, as well as the reality of Covid during the pandemic, the constant concern added much stress to her parents and to me. A brief period of good health would be followed by a trip to the hospital, with Nisa having a high fever or other symptoms. I sometimes accompanied Orhan and Zehra when they took Nisa to the hospital, but it was usually in the middle of the night. I would find out about it the next morning. The doctors indicated to Nisa’s parents that her health issues were exacerbated by Covid, but children were not being vaccinated. I lived in a state of constant vigilance; praying when Nisa was ill and in the hospital or recuperating at home, or wondering when the next health crisis would occur during a brief respite of good health.
One winter’s evening early in 2022, I experienced one of the darkest moments in my life. Nisa had been ill once again, but after treatment at the hospital, she was able to go home. Orhan went back to work after taking Nisa and her mother home from the hospital. I have often wondered how he managed to work at a demanding job and yet often have insufficient sleep due to trips to the hospital with Nisa. On this particular evening, there was a heavy snowfall, and the streets were icy. Nisa had wanted me to come for a visit, despite not feeling well after the trip to the emergency room at the hospital. Due to the weather, I declined going over to her house, which was a cause of great grief and guilt to me subsequently. Then later that evening I sent a text to Nisa’s mother, who did not respond. Thus, after a short time, I called Zehra on Whatsapp. For a brief instant I could see her standing in what looked to be a hospital room; she was wearing her coat and hat, and she looked distressed. Then the screen of the phone went black. I tried calling her again, but the line was closed. I sent a text message to Orhan at work, to which he did not respond. When I tried calling him, his mobile phone was closed too.
In that ‘perfect storm’ of an evening, my mind raced. Despite the snowstorm, I decided to walk to where Orhan’s parents lived, which was near to his place. From the street I could see that there were no lights on in the apartment, and no one answered the doorbell when I rang from outside. Orhan’s sister and her husband also lived nearby, and I hastened to her apartment building, but there was no one at home there either. I tried calling Orhan’s and Zehra’s telephone numbers again, to no avail. I was frantic with worry and did not know what to do. My heart was racing, and my mind was like a movie screen, playing a silent film with flickering images about what possibly could have happened. I decided that I could only go home and wait for the inevitable. Approximately halfway home, as I walked up a steep and ice-slicked street, I decided to call my sister, Barb, in Canada. She had visited me in Istanbul previously, and Nisa knew and adored her, not least of all because they were both devoted cat lovers.
When Barb’s voice came on the telephone, I could barely put my words and thoughts together. I told her that I thought Nisa must be very ill again and explained how I could not get through to anyone. I sat down on a low wall beside a parking lot and, although not normally a crier, I was distraught, and the tears started to flow. Sobbing, I told Barb that if anything happened to Nisa, I could not go on. Barb asked me what I was going to do, and where was I going? I told her that I could only go home and wait. We ended the call and I started to trudge home. The dark and cold winter’s evening reflected my inner turmoil. It came to me then that Nisa, my little buddy, meant more to me than my own life. She was my life. I knew then how parents and grandparents must feel when they are presented with the loss, or potential loss, of a beloved child.
The irony is that Nisa was not ill that evening, or at least she was not in the hospital. Zehra had taken Nisa to a pet shoppe to cheer her up, because she wanted to see some baby kittens that were there. It was only a fluke that Zehra had looked like a deer-in-the-headlights, and that the setting appeared rather hospital-like. In line with the ‘perfect storm’ scenario, Zehra’s mobile phone needed to be charged. It was the same situation with Orhan at work. He did not have his phone charger with him and his mobile too was not operating. However, I believe everything happens for a reason. That dark night of the soul confirmed and reaffirmed for me that my life and happiness revolve around a little gal who ended up at the centre of my world by a confluence of fate and fortuity.
Although recently Nisa’s bouts of ill health have not been as alarming, and the hope is that she will grow out of it, my day starts and ends with thoughts of her. This constant concern has been exacerbated by not only Covid, but the reality of living in earthquake-prone Turkey. In September 2019, I had severe lower back pain and did not go to work on the same day that there was a quite severe earthquake. Fortunately, there was no loss of life, and it was not as devastating as the earthquakes in Turkey in 1999 and 2023, both of which I experienced. However, as I lay on the sofa that particular early autumn day and felt the heavy tremors of the earthquake, my first thought was of Nisa.
When the shaking stopped, I immediately called Zehra and asked if she and Nisa were fine. They were of course extremely frightened, particularly due to living in a high rise. I spoke with Nisa and told her not to worry and that I was on my way over. Although my lower back was causing me quite significant pain, I barely felt it on the walk to Nisa’s home. When I arrived, Zehra had the television on and was watching the news coverage of the earthquake. It was reassuring to know there had been no loss of life due to the earthquake, but the unknown factor of course lay in the uncertainty of whether or not there would be subsequent tremors. Not wanting Nisa to be worried any more than necessary, I told Zehra to turn off the television. To distract Nisa, I suggested we play games that afternoon. Due to Zehra’s obvious and natural fretting about the earthquake, it was my goal to be as tranquil and reassuring as usual. I was glad when Orhan arrived home from work because I knew that his calm presence would put Nisa’s mind at ease, and hopefully keep her from thinking about the possibility of other earthquakes.
In February of this year when earthquakes in Turkey and Syria caused great devastation and many deaths, my first thought was not of me but of my little buddy, Nisa. I share an affinity with parents and grandparents around the world, who wonder how to protect beloved children from natural disasters. During the pandemic, as well as before and beyond, I have turned to prayer in an attempt to protect the life of a little gal who is the centre of my universe. However, the more recent and more ruinous danger is lying in wait: the prospect of a cataclysmic earthquake in the city of Istanbul, and the effect of such a disaster on its approximately sixteen million inhabitants. When I think of that possibility, my mind of course goes first to Nisa. I recite one of my persistent prayers, that I first uttered at the advent of the pandemic as a plea to the gods above and the powers that be, which always ends with the following proclamation: “We’ll get through this, honey, I promise. I promise!” The memory box that has served as a container of activities and artefacts, holds more than physical items; rather it is a vessel of thoughts, faith, and hope, that were accumulated as a testament to the power of prayer and love for my ‘çocuk manevi,’ my spiritual child.
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John RC Potter (he/him/his) is a Canadian who lives in Istanbul. His story, “Ruth’s World” was a Pushcart Prize nominee, and his poem, “Tomato Heart” was nominated for the Best of the Net Award. The author has a gay-themed children’s picture book that is scheduled for publication. He is a member of the League of Canadian Poets.
Recent Publication: “Heimat” in Overgrowth Press (Poetry) March 14, 2025 – Overgrowth
Upcoming Publication: “Clara Von Clapp’s Secret Admirer” (Prose) in The Lemonwood Quarterly. Website/Social media:
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Author’s Note:
“The Memory Box” is near-and-dear to me because it is about my god-daughter and the health issues she has faced since she was a baby, which has continued periodically for the past decade or more. It also highlights the reality of living in Istanbul and the ever-present dangers of earthquakes, including the recent ones. In regards to that aspect, the story posits the question: how do we protect our loved ones from natural disasters?