Flamenco concert. The cantaor’s deep voice filled with sorrow, the rhythm and intensity of the guitar and Cajon, the red flower in the dancers hair and the fire in her eyes reminded me of the beauty of life and evoked many feelings, sad and happy. Longings after my childhoods spring river, apple trees, the unripe walnuts that could color the hands black with their green shells, plum trees, cherries, sun-dried tomatoes, those who are gone. The birth of my children. The long pauses in the daily life. Silence. Sitting in my red armchair and listening to music so low that I can barely hear it, looking at the tree outside. The big, majestic tree with leaves that changes color from green to orange-red to yellow-brown. How she loses all the leaves and is quite unashamed naked in front of me. How she dresses in white, beautiful as a bride on her way to her winter wedding. Bursting buds. Pain. No time for tears. Life moving like a stream of water, never still, has taken me from mountains of Kurdistan to Montreal. Is this the last stop?