I remember the sound of bells

Not church bells. Or tinkling silver bells. But the heavy clanking bells that hung off the necks of the goats that walked daily down the street outside the window of the bedroom I was sleeping in.

I remember family meals, noisy and raucous, a sea of English and Greek and laughter and arguing, while we ate food I had never encountered before (and would not again): crusty bread, chicken that had flavor, vegetables from an actual garden, and hand-made pasta. I remember the crunch of the cucumbers, soaking in olive oil from family groves, crisp cold watermelon, plump sweet grapes that hung almost obscenely from the arbor that ran the length of the patio alongside our almost motel-like family homestead.

I remember talking to my Dad on the phone before he headed over, trying to read to him a list of books to bring me, and him cutting me off before I could get three words out. All he heard was books. Now I think of this and laugh at the lack of communication. He, worried about the $2/minute phone call not understanding how starved I was for the written word. Me, desperate to read something written in English, not understanding how much that call was costing. That was the summer I was 11 and I made the dive into adult literature, picking up my mother's fat paperback edition of The Stories of John Cheever. The book was red and the words were just that, something to satisfy my dependence on reading and my need to view something so familiar as an alphabet I recognized. It was nearly ten years later I would read "The Country Husband" in class and feel a strangely dislocated sense of unease, like I had just awakened from a disturbing dream whose contents were forever lost. It took another several years for me to recognize I had, in reading that story again, touched on a long lost memory of uncomfortable recognition that must have sparked when I had first read it.

It was my eleventh birthday when we flew from Chicago to Greece. I was not ready for four months of culture shock. And maybe I could have done things differently, but I think, given my nature, I handled it the best I could: loping around the village like the child I still was, appreciating the beauty of the young men around me like the woman I would too soon become.

I remember knowing not to get too attached to the lambs tethered to the storage shed, for they were just days away from being slaughtered for Stacy and Maria's baptism. I remember watching the humane way my great-uncle killed them; I remember eating their meat in celebration in the clearing beside the quaintly beautiful church. My father wore white shoes and danced, even though he often felt as lost as I did. I had candle wax and olive oil on my hands from baptizing Maria, then just six months old and already the love of my life.

I remember faces. Old, young, angry, sad, laughing. One by one the relatives I had met started passing. I have this great picture of my grandmother and her two sisters. They were so crazy about each other. Only one is left now. I remember eight months ago, feeling melancholy, wishing I could go back in time to tell my grandmother (yia-yia to me), I understand now why you are so sad. I am so sorry you have to miss your family this much. I understand now.

My family's village is burning. My family is safely (we think) evacuated to the nearest large city. They were told to go to the sea and I think, what the hell are all these old people supposed to do there? Sit in their cars and wait for the flames to get close enough they have to jump in the water? Hope there's a sea breeze to keep the fear of death blowing away from them?

I remember. I remember. I remember it all. The smells, the sounds, the confused and confusing emotions, the food, the love, most of all I remember the love.

My family's village is burning and there isn't a damn thing I can do but cry.

I haven't felt this fucking helpless in almost two years.
[Note: this was written during the fires in Greece last autumn. My family's village survived through the courage of several residents who had stayed behind to set up fire breaks.]