The Buses and Other Short Stories by Dora Drivas-Avramis Read Free Book Online Page A

mother used to call me Sophitza, it’s the endearing version of my name, but she was the only one who called me that.”
    â€œYes, of course, Sophie.” She stared at me with liquid eyes, said nothing and her eyelids drooped. As the afternoon light broke through the light curtain, her pallor was turning ashen. Had she fallen into deep sleep? I reached for my purse to leave when she unexpectedly said: “What is this place? Who brought me here? This is not my house, I don’t see my kitchen. I don’t see my garden and the beautiful flowers. Where are the children? Don’t you see it’s almost lunchtime, they’ll come home hungry, I want to prepare lunch, why am I just sitting here?” she asked in a desperate, almost panicky voice. “My grandchildren love
spanakopeta
and I haven’t bought the feta cheese or washed the spinach.” Then she jumped out of the chair and in a decisive manner, walked towards the door and said, “I’m going to leave.”
    I remembered the nurse’s words earlier and said, “Sophie, Nadia and the kids may come and won’t find you.” She stopped, returned slowly and sat in the armchair again. She appeared tired and I asked her if she needed help to get into bed. She nodded and turned her eyes and glued them on the shrine in the corner of the room; I understood that she wanted to perform her nightly devotions before the icons. She crossed herself when we reached the table, and with an utmost sincerity she began her intimate soliloquy. As much as I tried not to be privy to her entreaty, in the stillness of her room, the rhyming of her children’s and grandchildren’s names and her pleas for their good health and His blessings reached my ears. Then I helped her get into bed, “Sleep awhile, there you are. Rest a little, and we’ll talk again soon.”
    I bent down, adjusted her pillow and caressed her forehead; she, in turn, pulled my hand and stroked it gently, and sweetly said, “tomorrow, come again tomorrow.”
    Sophie’s devotion and concern for her loved ones lingered in my mind as I headed home. Perhaps her tender heart and generous spirit reminded me of my mother, who sympathized with everyone and suffered for everyone and everything. Whenever Sophie mentioned her children, it was always about what they needed; she talked about what she could do for them, she didn’t ask for anything in return. This is the remarkable thing, she never complained about them, even now when she felt so alone and no one showed up to hold her hand, she never faulted them. I only heard praises from her. This puzzled me. It reminded me of a wise man’s saying in ancient Greece, ‘from perplexity grows insight; the more questions we ask, the more likely the truth will reveal itself.’
    During a later visit, when I found Sophie alert and in good spirits, I asked her if she ever got tired taking care of her grandchildren. She smiled and said, “Tired? My dear, true love is not about us, it’s about others, and for this reason I never got tired or sick” A little silence fell and then she continued in a weaker voice. “…When I give my love, either by working for my loved ones or giving them something, I do it instinctively to make them happy, I don’t do it because I expect something in return… If you truly love someone, you do everything you can, at your expense, to make them happy, with sacrifice and humility. Love is an offering, not a possession.” I could have listened to her for hours, her innermost soul was inspiring. If the need arose, Sophie Petakis was prepared to sin for her family and willingly pay the penalty for it. To her, there was no greater punishment than not having the opportunity to love like this.
    I headed home. The sun was setting and a rosy veil bathed the Hellenic Villa and the entire street. Just as I was about to go up the stairs of my veranda, a