On a bus not far from Istanbul
an old man turns to me and says,
“You must live like a squirrel!”

I am young, and say, “Ok.”

He lifts a finger and says,
“A squirrel expects nothing more
than life itself. Living is enough for squirrel.”

I offer him some nuts. He
shakes his head, pointing to
his toothless mouth.

Years ago as a soldier he knew
he could fall dead on the battlefield
at any time. This made him a little angry,

but he worried about how
the war would end, even though
he might be gone by then.

He tells me this with the passion
of a man speaking to his son
from his deathbed. .

He spent years in prison
for his political views and asks
if I’d be willing to stand against a wall

and be shot for people I’d never met.
“Even though you feel living is
the most beautiful thing.”

“I don’t really know,” I say,
and offer him a banana.
He takes it with a smile.

As the bus moves up a mountain road,
he touches my arm. “Excuse me,”
he says, “Life is no laughing matter.

Our beautiful planet Earth knows
some day it will be as dead
as an empty walnut bouncing off

into the dark. You must feel its pain!
And love it with all your heart!”
“Ok,” I say. When the bus stops,

he leans close, “Remember, my friend,
live like a squirrel —seriously.”
There’s a hint of mischief in his eyes.

“I mean without wanting anything
beyond living. Your job is just
to be alive until your very last breath.”

He pats my shoulder,
hands me the banana skin,
and gets off the bus.

I wave goodbye to him
through the window
and travel on into my life,

with many years to go before
I begin to understand
what the old man was telling me.

(With thanks to the poet Nazim Hikmet)