Free The Buses and Other Short Stories by Dora Drivas-Avramis Page B

I had replayed their conversation, all the previous situations which made
mana
worthy of motherhood paraded through my thoughts. It’s difficult to find the precise words to describe her nurturing nature in every instance. Suffice to say that when I got hurt, she suffered; when I had a high fever, she burned; when I was upset, she cried; and when I was cold, she shivered. In short, when I was in pain, she was the kind of
mana
whose unforgettable deep sighs told me,
be patient my child, it will pass
.
    III
    A poke in my ribs from my sister Georgia’s elbow jolted me back inside the Funeral Home. Dazed, I stifled a yawn, and saw her crossed dark eyes turning towards Father Gregory who had finally arrived in his black cassock. He stood at the side of the open coffin and started chanting the
Trisagion
by repeating three times: “Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy and Immortal have mercy on us… May she rest in peace, may the souls of the faithful departed rest in peace…” Standing, with my hands clasped in front of me, I did everything possible to escape my state of semi-awareness; I resolved not to think at all, to erase, and totally escape my memories. But in vain. No sooner had I made the resolution than my thoughts drifted back to the time and place of my twelfth year. It was as if the more I tried to concentrate and participate in the solemn service here in Toronto, the more a curious force dragged me back to that day in Plitra, Greece of long ago.
Mana’s
overwhelming conversation with
Kyrio
Tasos, the secret I had not shared with anyone, not even my sisters, gave me a wavelet of happiness. And I found myself inclined to continue to isolate myself from the present event and delve into the past, searching perhaps for some insight that would explain the state of elevation when I looked back.
    Wafts of incense billowed from the censor as Father Gregory swung it to and fro towards the coffin and prayed for the forgiveness of sins. Through the smoke’s rising rings, I glanced at the open coffin again and the
Panagia Platytera’s
icon rekindled the solace I experienced when I first saw it. The scene mesmerized me. It was as if some new, penetrating feeling awakened and simmered in my soul. My heart seemed to loosen and grow larger, filling me with understanding and hope. An inexplicable joy took hold of me, a joy that I used to experience the nights I got up and looked at the stars in the infinite sky. Those clear silent nights when the soft breeze brought the fragrance of the blooming acacia bush in our courtyard. Staring at the
Panayia Platytera
, at once visible and invisible, her brown, ovoid eyes – holy and human through the smoke – met mine, and the more I gazed at Her, the more I began to accept the fact that it was pointless to resist my memories. And finally the flash of enlightenment came – it was as if Her Holiness had intervened and untied the troubling knots after I had given up tugging at their loose threads. Perhaps the past enthralled me because that day
mana
had given me the peace of mind that every twelve-year-old craves. That
mana
loved me totally gave me a rush, a rush of bliss, and I relished it then and treasure it now. Warmth from her affection kept me warm throughout my teens. Even now, though lifeless,
mana’s
face projected an expression of love, and I could feel it: firm, complete, without regrets or anxieties.
    But at this time, slowly but clearly, I also realized
mana’s
tenacious grip on life which showed me her inner strength – a strength that enabled her to be both a mother and a father and to forsake her dreams and hopes for her children. Resilient and resolute,
mana’s
stamina illustrated for me that there is, indeed, something greater than love: there’s sacrifice.
Mana
did what her heart told her to do at the time and she did it gallantly and graciously because her boundless affection made self-sacrifice so much easier. I remember