MY ECHOES

a nine-hour drive through mountains towards summers spent in our village - where we sorted produce in our market and served coffee to the χωριανοί. Where a payphone was the only link to the outside world which quietly ceased to exist to me. Nights spent on a balcony, on a creaky twin mattress where we learned of the stars we never new existed.

the confusing exchange of centuries old drachma, overshadowed only by the villagers δράμα. The sound of dice shaking for τάβλι beneath my παππούς hands while my γιαγιά’s butchering with practiced command - the crack of her machete against a tree trunk as she prepares cuts for the locals and visitors alike.

Marlboros - one after the other. Moonshine made by my father and brother. A toilet - no more than a hole in the ground, a small garden hose for cleaning around.

entire days wandering the mountainside with my best friend, trading stories of two worlds divided by water, visiting ancient rocks, monuments and gravesites, feeling the wind at the very top and falling in love with the boys forbidden by pop.

scorpions and stray dogs by the dozens, rusted playgrounds that burned our young skin, the ice-cold river of Δρίνος we so bravely embraced and the smell of summer rain on hot pavement - drying just as quickly as it came.

winding dirt roads that led to πανηγύρια, sweet red-rooster lollipops, nostalgic Amstel beers, aromatic souvlakia over charcoal and falling asleep to the sound of the lamenting clarino.

a language that still feels like home and a world that I will carry with me always. My echoes are loud. My future is clear.