Letter to Greece, written in a reflective hour on the roof right before I saw the sun set…I’m not going to edit it, so forgive me for that.
I don’t want to forget you. Your beautiful words—Paraskeví, Theos, Nomismotokopio, Megaro Moussikis, Pikermi. You have changed me, but not broken me. That may be yet to come. You make me ask big questions, you make me cry, you make me smile and laugh. You confuse me. I feel at home, I feel misplaced—I both miss and expect to miss. I love and I’m frustrated by you and your people and your dogs and foods and transportation. Greece, you are really annoying when you talk loud and don’t use the Latin alphabet, when you don’t provide for the disabled beggars and immigrants, refugees and gypsy children, don’t let the college easily run or Lindsey come back easily to help. But you’re also beautiful—palm trees in a desert, ocean without waves, salty seas I float on, sunsets that put me in awe. People from every nation in Athina trying to have a better life. Dry winds, low mountains/hills, adorable old people. You fill me with words, Greece, but no matter how much I write, I still feel full. I still feel unable to express.
And yet the sun always sets,
Always rises, always teaches.
Greece, I know you will continue
To teach long after I leave you.
Thank you, Ellas.