"Liar. Everyone who comes to Greece believes in ghosts. They just call them 'history.'"
"Not where. When. I am leaving the country. September. My aunt in Montreal. She has a diner. I will serve eggs and coffee to strangers who will never know my father's name."
The brass key sits in my desk drawer now, beside the photograph. Sometimes, on humid nights when the jasmine outside my own window blooms, I swear I can still smell her. I swear I can hear her voice, translating sorrow into a language I almost understand.
"Where?"
"Yes."
"Liar. Everyone who comes to Greece believes in ghosts. They just call them 'history.'"
"Not where. When. I am leaving the country. September. My aunt in Montreal. She has a diner. I will serve eggs and coffee to strangers who will never know my father's name." Roula 1995
The brass key sits in my desk drawer now, beside the photograph. Sometimes, on humid nights when the jasmine outside my own window blooms, I swear I can still smell her. I swear I can hear her voice, translating sorrow into a language I almost understand. beside the photograph. Sometimes
"Where?"
"Yes."