The Taste of Memories

Twenty women sit in a circle. Four therapists hold the space. It’s the end of October. We sit in the small conference room of a hotel in Urla, it will be our workshop space for the next three days. I am a participant this time. On one side of the room trees sway behind tall glass doors that open out onto a terrace and just beyond is the sea. Autumn is passing, but the colds come later to the Aegean. Inside we go around the circle, everyone sharing something about themselves. The theme of our workshop is “The taste left on our palettes and our memories.” We share the name of our favorite childhood dish. “Mantı” I say when it is my turn. Turkish ravioli, with garlic yoghurt and tomato sauce on top, the way my grandmother used to make it. I’m tired of hearing all the stories. Do we really have to go around and ask each of the twenty women to share? I wonder how long this will take and I’m so tired of hearing about traumas. Why did I even come? Why are there no men at these workshops? Is trauma a woman thing? There is one woman I hear more than the others. Maybe it is the sharpness in her voice, like chalk scraping on a blackboard. I cringe. “I always wanted seconds, my…