Though the waves leave the shore

Though the waves leave the shore, they always find their way back..

For 45 euros, one can take a large overnight ferry from the Athens port of Pireaus. One can sit on the deck, concurrently watching the sunset in the west while glancing at a disappearing Athens to the north. Eventually, when the novelty of watching seagulls soar over the wake of the ship has worn off, a passenger then has about ten more hours to fill aboard this florescent lit behemoth alone in a dark sea.

I imagine the sunrise was stunning over a clear sea, however, I missed it while hiding under a blanket that I had accidentally stolen from the SAS airline. As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, Mytiline appeared all sharp, clean angles in the bright morning light. Mariza greeted me at the dock with her cheerful hat and little red car to drive me and my 22 ukuleles two blocks to my tiny home. (where I promptly fell asleep for 3 hours..) 

Lesvos is familiar this time, her turns and curves leading to places that I understand. My bed is the same. The same freakishly dull cutlery is in my apartment. Little decorations that I left last year are still in their place. The lamp that I bought and proceeded to knock over last year has been glued back together and placed cozily in the window.  The guys in the copy shop (that I go to EVERYDAY,) smile with recognition. The uneven stone streets do not trip me up and the food... ah, the food. I’ve managed to stay away from the ice cream shop on the corner, though I remember well the taste. I may give in tonight. 

After sleeping and showering off the overnight ferry adventure, I met Mariza and headed to Mosaik together, where we, along with Christina and a man who's name I have forgotten, would have two hours of children’s choir rehearsals. Mosaik’s beautiful courtyard and high ceiling airiness filled with the voices of kids anxious for the freedom of summer. Two sisters walked in, the older showing signs of becoming a young woman and the younger smiling with a mouth still half full of baby teeth. We recognized each other from last summer, exchanging rib crushing hugs before forming a circle for the start of class. As the younger sister, with her dark hair and freckle sprinkled nose, took my hand, she hugged my arm, sighing softly. “I love you,” she said.

Now, I am aware that there are countless studies on the effects of trauma on children with outcomes being that they form quick attachments or no attachments at all. I know these things. But this little girl?  She can have my heart.