The dogs, large, wet, cooling off in the sea, drag themselves to the taverna at the first smell of grilling meat, chicken, pork, lamb, bringing trails of dried mud and sand with them. The flooding brought the mountains to the beach, meeting the shoreline. The Aegean’s calm belies the previous year’s destruction. Some of their cronies, other dogs, cats, drowned when the water from the hills, filled with human sewage, met the salty sea, usually healing but now the locals say to be careful, don’t let any get in your mouth. It’s okay for bathing but nothing else, not even brushing your teeth. I take tight-lipped showers.
I have little scars. At 54, it’s no surprise. Signs of small and a few larger traumas. It is from the Greek word τραύμα. It’s neuter, not masculine or feminine. Hell, η κόλαση, is feminine and I always thought that seemed unfair. Why do men get heaven – o παράδεισος – the paradise – while women are consigned to fiery pits?
“Don’t be so literal,” my Greek teacher tells me. But we are told that language, words, contain with them mini traumas, “micro-aggressions,” so I am left to wonder if there is more to it than a connotation that women are evil. I changed my dying mother’s diaper; I showered shit off her body when she forgot her legs didn’t work and tried to get to the bathroom. When she asked, “What is happening to my mind?” I stroked her hand, told her that it was okay, that I was there to help. “I only trust you,” she said. Is that a kind of hell? But also a kind of heaven? My brothers could not tolerate her dementia, so it was just me and her. It felt like childhood, where we had a secret pact though I was never her or my father’s favorite.
I sit by this inky and beautiful sea. I missed the floods. I get what is left behind: The heaven after the hell. Last night at dinner, a soft breeze from the sea keeping me comfortable, I shared pieces of my chicken souvlaki with a large white dog who made his temporary bed at my feet. I sipped ouzo, diluted with large cubes of ice that turned the clear liquid cloudy, as I reached down and stroked his fur, stiff from the salty water we both cooled off in earlier. The dog and I heaved collective sighs. We survived small and large cuts, so that we could find each other here and spend this one evening together, in silent communion.
Author's Note:
I am an aspiring flâneur: my favorite activity is walking. I live next to Seward Park in Lower Manhattan so I am often there, walking the park’s loop and enjoying the variety of people who come to this well-used public space. The park’s sounds bring me such joy: the squeals of delighted kids in the playground, the bark of dogs in the makeshift run on the basketball court, and the clinking of Mahjong tiles or the bouncing of ping pong balls. I feel so fortunate to live next to such a place where I can be alone but never feel lonely.
Rebecca Tiger teaches sociology at a college and in jails in Vermont and lives part-time in New York City. Her stories have appeared in Bending Genres, BULL, JMWW, MER, Peatsmoke, Roi Faineant, Tiny Molecules and elsewhere. You can find her on twitter @rtigernyc and rebeccatigerwriter.com.
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