When I was very young, my parents worked themselves ragged so they could give me and my sister a comfortable life; my mother toiling behind the counter in a bustling deli, and my father hocking guitars in a music shop. It meant that each day they were gone from the crack of dawn to the dead of night. To give us somewhere to nest after school, they sent me and my sister to grandmothers’s house. There we would watch the sun set as we waited for our folks to retire.
My grandmother – my Yiayia – is the quintessential Greek grandparent. Every day after school sis and I would trudge through her door, feigning joy that we were to spend the next four hours glued to her beyond-ancient television, poring through after-school specials and cartoons while she did her best to avoid asking if we were hungry. If we ever were, she would burst from the kitchen into the lounge, armed to the teeth with Greek pita bread, lamb and cookies - and the occasional chocolate delight.
A Greek-style crowning moment: Feeding the youths.
And yet those culinary quirks weren’t her only stereotypically Greek trait. Her walls were lined with photos of the grandkids – and alongside them, portraits of saints and tributes to the Lord. The Greek Christian Orthodoxy lived strong through Yiayia’s decor, and, like so many other elderly Mediterranean women before her, she held space in kitchen corners and bedroom benches for the face of Jesus Christ.
Brandon and his yia yia. Source: Supplied
Yiayia collected teacups; every surface smelled of dust and linens. You’d walk around her house and stumble upon a spare room, only to find it filled with rugs and other mysterious comforts – or perhaps they were memories. She crocheted doilies as a hobby.
But she would not be a Greek woman if she did not commit to wearing black every single day of her life; a sign that she mourns the passing of her husband.
Yet despite all of this – despite the trinkets, the carpets, and the food delivered so lovingly upon vintage-style platters – I could never find a way to tell her how much I appreciated her. Not just because her generosity surpassed gratitude.
I couldn’t speak her language. And she could barely speak mine.
I couldn’t speak her language. And she could barely speak mine.
Words can be simple, fleeting, convoluted and flowery. They beat and ebb like a heart. Without words, relationships are like wandering through gardens without flowers in bloom. The feeling is there, but the details are missing. And those details – what my grandmother thought and felt, and all the idle loveliness in between – were lost on me.
In the years since my childhood, I’ve learned a lot about my grandmother, from tales shared by my mother, as well as stories from the extended family tree. I learned that she came over to Australia months after my grandfather did; migrating with one of my aunts and my uncle in the 60s, having spent months without her love. I learned of her siblings, a brother and a sister, both of whom live and work in a Greek monastery on the island of Kalymnos. In the monastery, a saint lies buried – Saint Savvas the New of Kalymnos.
But without words, enough to share in the life she has lived, those are just stories. Worse still, they’re told by others in her stead, and that makes them more like echoes.
My grandmother is from a small town on mainland Greece, called Eratira. To this day you can find so many of my relatives there, living quiet lives in familial harmony, practically running the township all their own.
But without words, enough to share in the life she has lived, those are just stories. Worse still, they’re told by others in her stead, and that makes them more like echoes.
But that town, without anecdotal etchings, is all but an image to me.
I remember my grandmother fell over once, on the way to picking me and my sister up from school. The elderly are known for their missteps, but Yiayia made it look devastating. Now, when we meet, though she might not understand my words, I’ve always held onto her arm. She’s always known I’m there.
She fell again recently. Only this time, it led to a brain bleed. She spent weeks in hospital while doctors tried to work out the extent of the damage. Shortly after they released her, her house was sold and she moved into a retirement home.
She forgets people’s names now. She’ll look at me and say, “Daniel! How are you?” - mistaking me for my younger cousin. Worse still, people are becoming strangers to her. She’ll look at my mother and quietly wonder who she’s talking to, before continuing to banter back and forth in Greek.
And what little English she could speak or understand has truly gone out the window.
And what little English she could speak or understand has truly gone out the window.
When I visit Yiayia in the retirement home, I make sure to hold her when she walks. We exchange smiles; small talk and vague pleasantries in broken, almost floundering English. I wonder sometimes if she knows who I am – and if she does, will it last? She doesn’t offer treats anymore, and long gone are the smells of linens, replaced with something more sterile.
I know that she’s going to die soon. I can feel it in every vague stare, every groan, and every hour-too-long spent by my mother in the home. When she finally passes, I’ll regret never learning her language. I’ll regret not learning so much more of who she was.
But when I look at my grandmother, I will still see a smile. I’ll see teacups. I’ll see black robes. I’ll see an island, with two familiar faces and the comforting spectre of a saint. I’ll see a far-off township in the centre of a civilisation, where so many of my family live, work and love. I’ll see white doilies laid out on a coffee table.
And I’ll see a portrait of a life. A life which begat mine. And a life I will always be grateful for.
