As the washing machine makes its rounds, I sit on the couch watching my one year old watch the washing machine with fascination. The sound of the crashing wet clothes hitting against the sides, knocking the dirt out of them. After a second or two, my thoughts wander.

Years ago I sat on a huge flat gray rock just off a hidden path. I had the ocean in front of me. Trees shaded me. The sound of the crashing waves had me in a trance. If I could have stayed in that same place forever, I would have. It was in a small fishing village on a Greek island. I remember my friend and I ate fresh strawberries on the side of the road. We had lunch in a cave furnished with leather couches. A doilie shop had lizards racing up the wall. The word “yassou” quickly became a part of my daily vocabulary. We watched two heavy greek women with aprons walking alongside each other like they had never separated. My friend nodded her head at them and said, “That could be us.”

The washing machine on its final series of spins jerks me out of my daydream. Ethan lost interest and is now pulling the DVDs off the shelf again. The words echo in my head, “that could be us.” Could’ve. But isn’t.

Dear Greece, I miss you. Next time I come, I promise to bring my family so they can fall in love with you too. x


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