My Grandmother's Eyes

My grandfather's wiry, black moustache tickles my ear as he blows a raspberry. Ahhhhh! Papou that was yucky! He chuckles and does it again. I let out a delighted scream and run to hide behind the couch. I bury my face into the soft brown fabric of the ancient couch and breathe in the tangy tobacco smell that has permanently sunk into everything. I giggle in anticipation, waiting for him to come and scoop me up and tickle me some more.

My mother drops me off at his house every morning on her way to work, my lunch already cooked so all he has to do is heat it up. But he never makes me eat the steamed vegetables and tasteless chicken my mother makes; he puts me on the bench next to the stove and I watch as he cooks something fantastic like spiced lamb and cous cous. The tantalizing fragrances waft out from the pan and create a delicate web that settles over the kitchen. He is constantly talking, telling me how the sweet-hot clove oil soothes a sore stomach, how saffron is the most delicate part of a flower and must be handled with care. Sometimes he lets me grind dried aniseed in a heavy stone bowl and the sharp liquorice scent makes my eyes water.

We finish out lunch and it is my nap time. My grandfather sings to me in Italian, in Arabic, in French. I beg him to sing the Greek one. He says his mother sung it to him when he was small. He has a rich baritone that is smooth and the thick sound comes from deep within him almost effortlessly My grandfather was born and raised in Egypt. He moved to Cyprus to find work when he was 18, where he met my grandmother, fell in love, and whisked her away from her family in the middle of the night. After a few years they had a child, a boy, and then two years later a girl. The birth was hard and my grandmother passed away as soon as she heard her daughters first cry. There was only one photo of my grandmother in the house, I found it once when we were playing hide and seek. It was in my father's old room, under the bed, taped onto the bottom of the mattress.

I slide in under the bed, panting in anticipation and barely contained laughter. By chance, I look above me and see my own grey eyes looking back. The grey eyes belong to a woman in a photo. It is a snapshot taken on a hill somewhere, the woman is surrounded by wildflowers. I know instantly who she is; my grandmother. No one ever speaks about her but I know, I know. I can hear my heart beating, the blood pounding in my ears. This woman is my family, my blood. I wriggle out from under the bed and press the photo to my chest, trying with all my might to engulf her, to incorporate her somehow into me somehow.

Tiptoeing dramatically, my grandfather grabs me from behind and showers my head with kisses. I've found you! I turn around and wordlessly hold out the photo. For the first time in my short life I am afraid. His dark eyes, usually gentle and soft, become enraged, his full lips become a harsh thin line and his olive complexion darkens like a terrible storm. He grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me. Where did you get this? I whimper and point to the bed. He starts towards the bed as though he will tear it apart with his bare hands but stops, mid stride. Turning, he grabs me again and swallows me up in a tight embrace, folding me into him. Agapi mou, agapi mou, signomi. My love, my love, I'm so sorry. I squeeze him back, pressing my small face against his.

Kat