Images from an Edge- Kefalonia
Pen in hand, trying to distill images,
diverted from across stone wall,
all encompassing Cerulean ocean,
demarcated by cloudless azure Ionian skies.
Blues broken by one solitary pale green potted cactus
brought to housewarming three years ago.
Who brings a cactus as housewarming?
Dear Carlos did, transporting himself
and cactus from Portugal on a lark.
Or, better, on a wayward Kittiwake.
Carlos sits oblique to me at a cumbersome old hewn wood table,
molasses poured onto and soaking into a sunbleached canvas chair.
Canopied over dark sunglasses shadowing bushy brows and vamping eyes,
a frayed straw hat cools less than the Moschofilero quaffed all day
ameliorating the blistering Greek sun.
I surreptitiously spy Carlo’s dick peeking out from the loose leg hole
of his stretched faded pink short shorts. Studied?
Probably not, given his impetuous nature,
but enigma is reason enough why he, like the cactus , stay welcome-
permanent transplants here to Kefalonia.
Coming from a history of fine Duoro vines, Carlos is also appreciated
for never complaining about our copious Moschofilero.
I must not weave a withholden story
without disclosing Carlos often causes darkened azure skies
to populate with non celestial stars
additions to actual ones I see in furtive glances up
between his shoulders and bushy brows.
Even noctural sea breezes cannot quell that blaze.
Then, there is Talia. She came with the villa,
lords over our gaggle of straw hats and ubiquitous sunblock,
and takes prisoners with her ambrosial calamari salad
brought to frequent picnics at Myrtos Beach.
We rhapsodize over her salt baked sea bass that often
punctuates glorious sunsets soaked with still more Moschofilero.
Talia is lore of many island stories. Her casual beauty and zaftig curves hide any
lines of life’s distress in her face. Her smile comes easy but veils staunch empowerment. Talia tempers her timbre with solemn pronouncement,
“There is no ‘why’! It’s because I said so.”
She endears with her ferociously focused Xeri game play
morphing composed woman to a “rape and pillage”
martinet of startling animation and vocal range
when she is losing, suspects irregularity,
or has suckled without throttle on the Tsipouro Brandy.
Many nights Talia engages the table with her embellished
telling of younger times with randy Greek mariners.
Ears are scorched with her ribald tales. Lobes are fastened to her tellings
She is my anchor and protector with her gentle love and stern hand.
Talia’s Mother Hyperia still keeps house on the island.
This independent woman infrequently deigns to visit,
dressed entirely in black in her 17th year in mourning her late fisherman husband Stavos.
Her visits are eagerly anticipated as she comes attached
to basket filled with Bobota and Dolmakadia.
Hyperia eschews drinking alcohol, but in finding a full tumbler of Moschofilero
appearing at arms reach, she can orchestrate a stealthy disappearance from her glass.
Up to 9 times !
This sturdy woman is, for unknown reason, taken to me. I am greeted with lung exorcizing hugs, and big, nearly toothless smiles. Carlos, however, gets just a stink eye. Hyperia sits and stares at him and his every action as though he was about to steal the flatware. Something akin to her Moschofilero disappearances, this affectation resides in the woman herself. When happening a visit to the old woman’s cottage, there is nary ever an appearance of a single purloined fork or spoon, so we are at loss as to where the pieces go. Talia figures she melts them down to spearheads for when Turks ever attack the island.
Hyperia and Talia mostly get caught up talking in Greek , but quietly.
Her very thunderous operatic tenor voice is reserved to responses in our discussions of religion.
The word “Turkish” seems to elicit a particularly saliva laden response.
But we adjust to Hyperia, and she is a fixture much as a comfortable sofa ,
noting that sofas have no aptitude for baskets of goodies.
This daily core cadre is sporadically seasoned with mainland friends.
They come and shatter idyll with their chatter on worldly matters,
matters that often bring fanciful evenings to a halt in resolute silence,
a sobriety in gratitude for the monotony of bliss we marinate in.
We shy from loading up with too many outworldly parcels so difficult to hold and balance.
The resident three disdain feeling threatened.
Salvation is in not existing a time that Carlos nor Talia, nor the Moschofilero and Calamari salad, even dear Mána, or our immigrant cactus, allows me to sink into a slough of despond. Nary a regret that I lounge linger here, isolated
and disconnected in Ionian revel, and the comfort of continuity .
Leaving no undarned holes to fall through- this pen leaves you images why.
While Carlos and Talia bid you, Γεια σας από τον παράδεισο
(Hello from paradise)
- Dedicated to Doris "Magnolia" Stanek with love, on her being a cancer survivor at a gathering of our clan July 28,2019
