Hurtful Words

Like stones thrown at a hungry dog

Like rain falling on an unfinished roof

Like a river flooding a newly planted field

Hurtful words.

 

They wake you up in the middle of the night

They look for you in every corner of the city

Their sound faster than the light

Hurtful words.

 

Like fine sand entering every corner

Like wet weather for an old man’s bones

Like a wind that dries the greenest garden

Hurtful words.

Fast and Furious

Greece, July 2016

We were having an early dinner after a visit at the ancient Epidaurus theatre, not far away from this little port but at high noon and with high temperatures, and also after a long afternoon swim at the lovely beach right underneath that hill in the background. The waiter in the taverna told me that at least two of those houses on the hill, with gorgeous view over the bay, were bought by writers as their writing refuge—I don’t know if he noticed my great frustration for not affording to be one of them. At least as good as the food was watching the movement around the port: kids diving into the sea from the pier, fishing boats going out for evening fishing, diverse pier strollers, the setting sun and those four old ladies sitting on buckets and folding chairs on the right.

What’s not in the picture, what I must add with words to the picture, is these four old girls driving with high speed in a shabby old white FIAT-something, stopping at the beginning of the pier, one of them jumping out of the car, taking a few steps on the pier, checking the situation in the water, checking the situation (people, boats etc.) around the pier, then jumping back into the car which drove away once more in high speed and in a way that showed the passengers’ dissatisfaction with the existing circumstances on their beloved pier. But after checking twice on the pier and all of us around, it seems that the old ladies found no better fishing spot for that night and so they finally settled themselves with all their equipment on the pier, transforming again into quite normal Greek grannies and tolerating strollers and gapers with a smile and a chat.

Badminton

In the park I sat on a bench and tried to recover from having failed as a mother twice in only three days. On Monday my son and I had a terrible argument about him not doing his homework right after school but fooling around until he was too tired to do any. And today, although I had introspectively decided all the things I’d like to improve on myself as a mother in order to handle the situation better, I only managed to yell at him slightly milder… I was frustrated and the beauty of the park in the late afternoon sun was not enough to make me feel better. 

Behind my bench a young girl around my son’s age was playing badminton with her mother who had placed her hijab for the occasion over her shoulders in order to be able to play better; she was my age. A younger woman, with her hijab on, was sitting on a picnic blanket reading and typing on her smartphone. Suddenly the badminton ball was caught in a high branch of a tree over them. The young girl repeatedly but unsuccessfully tried to shake the branch by throwing at it  a basketball ball they also had with them. The mother tried too but the tiny feather ball kept playing the bird. I used to be a good volleyball player so I thought targeting with the ball might be easier for me and so I went there to help. I already had suspected that the women were Syrian refugees but I got sure after I did get the ball down for them and they could only keep repeating “Danke, Danke”. I smiled as friendly as I could and went back to the bench and my frustrated solitude.

A few minutes later I felt someone approaching. It was the younger woman who was holding a box with sweets she now offered to me. They looked like tiny baklava and kaidaifi, familiar to Greeks and Turks, with peanut pieces on them. She told me their Syrian name but I cannot recall. She told me hers too and I can recall that. I ate and enjoyed the sweet and offered her the seat next to me. She told me that she had came over the Aegean and the Balkan route on foot. Her husband came later by car. (I guess one of the illegal and dangerous refugee transports in trucks.) She was learning German every day and was happy to have made it. She invited me to sit and eat something together with the other women–there were two more on the picnic blanket now. I declined feeling guilty to sit any longer with them while my son was waiting at home for me to say goodnight. I had left him with his dad but I knew he was waiting. 

I said goodbye and went back home. My goodnight story for my son was the Badminton story which he loved. A good friend told me the other day that thankfully every day has also an expiration date. He is right of course.

3:30am habits

I remember the times when you needed

no excuses for loving or hating me.

If we’d wake up in the middle of the night,

one was there for the other to talk

or make love or go and find food.

 

I’m losing my sadness, it’s true,

but I am the same one I was with it,

when I wrote love letters and cried,

only without hope in the early hours

and full of work the whole day.

A Sand Story

The sun turned the sand into water and the young bodies were swimming. 

Every step a splash of sand in the eyes of time. 

Their feet were Hermes’ feet, their breath was Apollo’s. Only their heart was still theirs, beating in their breasts in the same rhythm the ball touched the dry sand. 

We pretend that all these moments are just for us. It’s our only chance to be together. 

Homewhispers

These last few shots are from the village cemetery. When I come back to Greece I equally visit living and dead relatives.

My grandpa died July 4th, nineteen years ago. Grandma died only three weeks later. Although the two of them were not always in best terms while alive, it seems they preferred staying together in eternity than not. 

We did a ‘trisagio’, a blessing for the dead, at the cemetery. The priest is called to say the prayers and he reads the names of a family’s dead three times. On a piece of paper we wrote down twenty names. 

Strawberry Moon

Monday, June 20, 2016. Evening. It’s raining. There will be nothing to see here tonight of the first June solstice full moon in decades. Fair enough, there are bigger problems in this world at the moment than that, I think. But then I read:”In 2016, a full Moon, also commonly known as Strawberry Moon, will coincide with the June Solstice. The 2 events haven’t occurred on the same day since 1967 and will not coincide again until 2062.”

I was not yet on this planet in 1967 and it’s almost certain that I won’t be here anymore in 2062.

Damn you rain! No strawberries for me.