Today is the anniversary of my grandmother's death. In Greek, the word for grandmother is Yaya. Emphasis on the second syllable.
She was the only glimpse of normalcy during a childhood wracked with the terror of living with my mother, her daughter, Erofily. Yaya wasn't a happy woman, but she was kind. When I was a kid, she was always calling to me, " Ella, ella!" "Come! Come!"
The image on the left is of a carved wooden stamp for marking the top of baked bread. It is the only thing I have that was hers. It is on the kitchen counter. I touch it every day.
The photographic image below, I don't know exactly what it is. I remember the plants and the shadows, but I cannot place the ground. I know it looks like steps, but it is not steps. It reminds me of her. She is literally, the only person in my life who was always happy to see me.
I suppose that doesn't speak particularly well of me as a person, but to tell the truth, I don't really care at this point. I have never been a very big fan of the human race. I'll take the company of Abra any day.
Great photo. I remember her delicious honey cake, which I have never found anywhere else to compare with hers. She was always a kind port in the storm of that house. B.
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