Aigioklima

My Ode to Mother

Had I been able to bottle the elegance of mother, her scent would have bruised the market with the resounding silence after the pandemonium of the strike of the judges gavel. Instead mother’s scent has bottled me, enthralling, lingering on my memory, — infinity has crashed the market.

If only I were as the terra-cotta urn of potted Aigioklima* that climbs and scents the stone pillars of my reclusive veranda.

Under the Mediterranean sun drenched day, she lazes from her nightly escapades.

As I return home from a long day, night begins to envelope the theatrical day. My soma stamped with the extra postage the weight of loneliness requires as payment.

I throw my window open the Aigioklima — her nocturnal emissions — cloyingly sweet essence asphyxiates the darkness. Her breath invades my nostrils, sailing on the halcyonic early evening breeze.

Her trellised crimson blossoms cascading invade my fenestrella — her vines caricatured limbs reach through the gauzy sheers to embrace my return.

Her hundred claret blossoms — eyes, watch as I toss my shoes off my dainty feet — aside.

They land in the same locus as they do every evening. Slightly askew I nudge the right closer to the left with my veneered toe.

I tiptoe so as not to disturb the ghosts that reside here — to the kitchen. I prepare the kettle to brew my nightly ritualed cup of ferbile sage tea.

I sit upon a chair I pull toward me quietly, knees tucked below my chin I twirl my hair around my long fingers as I await the tea to reach a boil.

I stare blankly out the beveled glass window. As I await, my mind journeys, lulled my mind detects a presence. It enters the stage door, pulls the cords to the curtains of my animas pivoting theatre.

It is a bright day in this dress rehearsal, the reverent wears not the mourning dress as I remember from her last years on stage — but is dressed by me as I flip through the wardrobe lined walls of my memory, the way I want — need to remember her.

Dressed in white linen sundress, black shining curls cascading, caressing her waistline, her skin lathered with a sheen of dew, her dress clings to her lithe frame — as the suns rays play hide-n-seek with the shadows it caresses through the paper thin fabric — she’s barefoot.

She carries the watering pot to and fro as she lovingly waters the Aigioklima.

She halts as if sensing an audience, my edacious hypnotized stare. She wipes away the perspiration that has formed beaded pearl drops upon her forehead, she smiles — beguilingly. She measures the distance between us, her smile reaches her eyes, crinkling the edges where her lashes salutate her beauty mark, her smile settled into the creases that lined her contoured Aegean features. The mark birthed upon her, that I gently played with and placed a kiss upon because I thought it was an injury had a pulse of its own — calling to me.

A wisp of a smile, melancholy shadows the corners of my lips in return, only truth veers it away from the ridges of my spherules. I ardently press her to fading memory — my tears the glue adhering her to the stage floor.

Her visage fading as the petals of Aigioklima drift forlornly onto her hair. The aromatic hues form a blinding halo.

The whistling of the kettle breaks my reverie, the steam sprays forth, condensation forming a barrier on the glass screen. A barrier between my dream and her other-new world. No parrelle bridge to cross.

I rise, I respire, the cup of tea forgotten as it cools on the counter.

I retire to my room, no need for lights. No performance, I undress hastily tossing every stitch aside carelessly and sprawl inelegantly on my oversized chaise.

I cover my head with my pillow — suffocating, as I try to build a barrier between the mournful ringing of loneliness perversely invading the spaciousness of my room — carried on an argent plated cloud of incense — Aigioklima.

I fan it away, in silent prayer, whispering,

I’m sorry, Metera mou*, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry…

The solitary theatre master calls,

Lights out, blackout, curtain call.

I water the Aigoklima, in solitude — the curtain falls.

Turn off the light,

“She says as she walks away, creating a small ‘woosh’ that smells sweet and chemical. It makes me sad because it’s the smell she makes when she’s leaving. ”— Augusten Burroughs.

Aigioklima*- Lonicerna, Honeysuckle.

Metera mou*- Mother mine

Translated by myself from my original Greek.