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They had special words for everybody.
For him I was agoraki mou, which made me smile inside. It had been a long time since I'd been a little boy, and it had been never since anyone claimed me so sweetly as their own.
Yiayia called me something else, a word I never heard before, a word that was mine and mine alone. I guessed it meant grandson, so I willingly claimed it as she claimed me. Kardia mou.
Anastasia garnered many terms of endearment, but it was her full name they preferred. Anastasia mou. Anastasia mas.
My Anastasia.
Our Anastasia.
And sometimes, as she passed by, bringing Pappou coffee or cookies, opening the door to the neighbours, doing the dishes, starting the laundry, or checking that the phone was hung up, she breathed her name like a prayer. “Ach, Anastasia mou.”
As for Sia, she tracked my whereabouts but reveled in the newfound attention. In the constant hum of activity.
Because the house was rarely silent. Neighbors and relatives came and went, only to come back again. Yiayia introduced Anastasia to each one by her full name. It had been so long since she'd been able to use it, it seemed she couldn't say it enough.
Me, she presented with a sweep of her hand, and that word I kept meaning to confirm with my cousin meant grandson.
They watched her.
And I watched them.
Sometimes from my safe place, behind the shelter of my lens.
A persistent splinter of unworthiness took the place of the constant suffocation.
I no longer avoided the ocean of love and affection they lavished on me, but it burned that I hadn't earned it. If they knew me, knew the anger and bitterness I harbored, the life of solitude and selfishness I'd led, would they feel the same?
I struggled to understand. When I failed, I turned my attention to watching them with Sia.
And I learned.
They required nothing from her.
Her tantrums, an unexpected bonus of the trip, sent them into a flurry of ‘ti thelis, moro mou?’ as they conferred back and forth with each other.
Yiayia offered her food, milk, juice, and cookies. She checked her diaper and ensured she wasn't hurt.
When it turned out she screamed for something she couldn't have, they laughed and kissed her cheeks, wiped her eyes. “Koritzaki mou, ekseri ti theli’, nodding proudly that their little girl knew and demanded what she wanted. Then Pappou distracted her while Yiayia tucked the offending item out of sight.
They gave her free reign with the buttons on the converter, the telephone, and everything in the lower kitchen cabinets was fair game.
It was my job to put everything back at the end of the day while Yiayia supervised.
“Kanei kala yia to moro.”
Make it good for the baby.
All so she could have the pleasure of pulling everything back out the next day.
And the next.
When Sia climbed into the empty cupboard, they laughed and delivered cookies, books, and toys to her spitaki. Her little house.
There was precious little they wouldn't give her, but I was relieved to note they drew the line at knives and matches.
And finally, when nothing else worked to soothe her, they soothed, “Korazmeni, einai to koritzi. Kleisai to porta, agapimeno mou.”
