When the Cypress Whispers by Yvette Manessis Corporon Read Free Book Online

lemon trees were dotted with giant golden sunbursts, while blackberry bushes dripped with wine-colored orbs. And of course the tall, slim hunter-green cypresses stood regal sentinel above everything else.
    She took a deep breath and filled her lungs with sea air once again, knowing the salty moistness would soon give way to the island’s signature perfume of rosemary, basil, and roses.
    “Oh, Mommy, it’s so pretty,” Evie cooed beside her.
    “Yes, honey. Yes, it is,” Daphne agreed.
    “Hey, Evie, here you go.” Popi nudged the little girl and slid a tissue into the back pocket of her jeans. “For the slobber sisters. They’re all here,” she said with a wink.
    Evie giggled. She wrinkled her nose, stuck out her tongue, and again mumbled “Ewwwww.” She held tightly to Daphne’s hand as they took the short walk down the boat’s ramp, into the waiting crowd.
    The moment Daphne and Evie’s feet hit the ground, they were surrounded. Dozens of aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, friends, and even strangers came at them from all directions; hugging, kissing, pinching, slobbering, and fawning over them. Daphne was overcome by emotion as well as several waves of nausea. The late-morning heat mixed with the often overwhelming and familiar island fragrance of elders who, even in these modern times, still didn’t use deodorant.
    “Daphne, I missed you.”
    “It’s so wonderful to see you.”
    “Evie, look at you. You are beautiful.”
    “Daphne, poor, poor Daphne. I am a widow too. Only I can understand your pain.”
    “Daphne, I’m so happy for you. You are going to make a beautiful bride.”
    “Daphne, are you sick? Why are you so skinny?”
    The salutations were warm, welcoming, endearing, and endless. Daphne made sure to greet each and every well-wisher with a hug and a kiss, even if she had no idea who her greeter was. The last thing she wanted was to appear aloof or ungrateful when really, it felt wonderful to feel so welcomed and so loved.
    She greeted every older woman with a warm “ Yia sou, Thea ,” and every older man with a joyous “ Yia sou, Theo .” “ Yia sou , Ksalthelfi ” and “ Yia sou , Ksalthelfi ” were reserved for the younger islanders whose names escaped her. That was the beauty of being from Erikousa—everyone was related somehow, so even if you had no idea who you were speaking to, you could always get away with simply aunt, uncle, or cousin, and no one was ever the wiser.
    After scanning the crowd between the bobbing heads and bodies that were constantly coming at them, it was Daphne who spotted her first. “Yia-yia, Yia-yia!”
    She held tight to Evie’s hand and led her to the other side of the port, where Yia-yia waited. She wore her baggy black dress, headscarf, and black tights, even though it must have been ninety degrees outside already. She stood alone, slightly apart from the rest of the crowd, leaning on her bamboo walking stick and holding the reins of Jack—short for Jackass—the donkey that Daphne had named so many summers ago.
    “Yia-yia, oh, Yia-yia,” Daphne sobbed as she clung to her beloved grandmother. The old woman threw down her walking stick and even the reins of her prized donkey and grabbed Daphne as if she would never again let go. They stood there for several moments crying uncontrollably, heaving up and down with each sob—faded and stained black polyester pressed against delicate white linen.
    “Here, Mommy.” Daphne felt a tug at her white eyelet skirt and looked down to see Evie smiling up at her, offering her the tissue that Popi had earlier placed in Evie’s back pocket.
    “Thank you, honey.” Daphne took the tissue from Evie’s hand and wiped her mascara-streaked face. “Evie, this is Yia-yia.” Daphne beamed.
    Without any prompting from Daphne, Evie took two steps forward toward Yia-yia. “ Yia sou , Yia-yia . S’agapo .” Evie wrapped her little arms around Yia-yia’s legs and gave the old woman a hug.
    Yia-yia bent down and