This Verga house, in the beginning, can only be described as a pile of bricks, debris, a shelter for wayward goats and sheep with major structural faults and illegalities. But as each day goes by the bricks are being secured with mortar, the debris is being cleared, the obstructed views are being corrected, the earth is being turned over and pipes are being laid. Life is being breathed into an otherwise forgotten and abandoned part of my life, one that I had resigned to always being ramshackle and unrepairable. I guess the same could be said about my relationship with my father. And even though he has passed on, I've discovered that the connection is still very much alive.
I had a strange dream the other night. I woke around 2am and I felt like I had just run a marathon. It was disturbing, foreboding and I felt...little. It seemed quite real to me and I lay there in the dark hoping that the ominous energy in the room would dissipate and allow me to catch my breath. Oddly, the energy felt familiar, like it knew me... and I it; this has happened twice before.
You see, I was visiting my mother over the weekend and I had slept in my dad's room. Could the energy be... my dad? Is he in a bad place? Is he trying to communicate displeasure about something? Do I even believe that it was a visit from him or was it just a dream; a bad combo of a scary movie, greasy pizza and cheap wine? A very good friend suggests that no parent would come back to frighten their child, if it were possible to come back at all. I have not been in my dad's room for any real length of time since his death. It still smells like him.
He wore Channel and sometimes I open and sniff the bottle that he left behind. And when I do, my brain floods quickly with flashes of dad always in a crisp shirt and his gold Omega watch, ready for work. I sniff again and I can hear the crack of his voice as he chastises someone. The scent lingers in my nose and this time I see and hear him trying to teach me about hardships of life and consequences of poor life choices. Huh? I start to laugh at that memory.
Over a double Greek in the morning with a φρυγανιά με μέλι (fregania me meli, toast with honey) he would find time to wax philosophic with me as I quickly attempted to put my shoes and coat on and seek refuge at the University. Like all good Greek men, they like to school you, using 'funny' Greek sayings and dad was textbook. His favourite, Πρέπει να βρέξεις κώλο να φας ψάρι, "You have to get your ass wet to eat fish." And to that he would add the tag line, "do your best and be the best." I shake my head just writing it. Its etched in my brain, indelible in my psyche. Perhaps I should have put that saying in his obituary. lol.
Seriously though, because dad never missed a day of work EVER, I thought a great opening line for his obit would have been, "Stopped working on April 26th, 2009...etc". My brothers cringed. What? It's quirky and truthful and a testament to what he loved best in his life. You can use the opening line, if you like it, Σου το χαρίζω, because my brothers ended up writing the standard text. "Passed away on April 26th, 2009...etc.", yawn.
Dad had his mornings free to do banking and make phone calls, but most times I would find him sitting at the kitchen table, turned sideways in his chair, looking out the large sliding glass door at the end of the family room. He would sit as if in meditation admiring his estate for long stretches of time and the silence would be broken with a loud sigh, "Αh", and then he would mutter one of his Greek sayings almost inaudibly, "My house, my little home, my poor little shack", Σπίτι μου, σπιτάκι μου, φτωχοκαλυβάκι μου. No matter what place you call home, there is nothing like it. And his obsession to build this Greek House has now become mine.
I admittedly have been consumed by the details, the progress and the future outcome of this Verga house. Striving to make it "the best", it occupies my waking thoughts and likely interferes with my REM sleep. I have called upon my father many times, in anger, in confusion and in sadness; especially during the early discovery process of the status of his Greek estate and all the shards that were left for me to pickup. And I can hear my father's voice answer me with "Every beginning is difficult", Κάθε αρχή και δύσκολη. There have been tough situations throughout these 3 years since his death that I had asked myself, "what would dad do, or even say?" And who knew that all these 'funny' Greek sayings that had seemingly washed over me actually ring true on every level of my present.
I know precisely what dad would say to me now and I don't need a phantazma (φάντασμα , apparition) to deliver any messages, "Since you've joined the dance, you must dance", Αφού μπήκες στο χορό, θα χορέψεις. And its a good thing I like to dance, because I'm doing a lot of it.
And today as I prepare my father's kolliva (κόλλυβα, memorial cereal grains for the dead), adding the pomegranate seeds, the toasted slivered almonds, the sweet cinnamon sugar, raisins and all the aromatics to the wheat pearls, I can't help but think, would he like it? Is it too wet, too dry, too sweet...is it the best? Of course it is. I know exactly what I'm doing and I'm always trying to do my very best.
