Somewhere in Greece, there’s a convenience store with my family’s name on it. Somewhere there, someone still remembers my uncle's name- They used to call him Taki in the village… Why did we never know that? Somewhere there’s a skeleton above the sea and when we visit, we roll her out. She’s a pile of ash by now, rotting in the dirt like maybe she deserved. 

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Somewhere in Greece, there’s the house our great-grandmother died in. Her son was only two. Somewhere in America, they moved here first, American promises on their tongues, a genocide at their feet. Somewhere here, there was a family that fell apart. There was an uncle left alone and unattended- who never blamed them, not even as they blamed him. 

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Somewhere, in a city somewhere, we lost track of our cousins. They died in different states, go to hell, their final exchanges. Bitterness and boiling grudges, spurned uncles and nephews, irate great-grandmothers and their daughters. 

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Somewhere in the city, we drove past a family house every day until we learned they died. Somewhere in our homes there are wooden flower crowns, above black and white photos, dishes proudly painted with Made in Greece, and immigration documents written half in English. 

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Somewhere in Northern Greece, nestled between a mountain range, there’s a village my blood sings its loyalty to… 

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Hand painted sunrises wash over the orange roofs in a sleepy village guarded by old Yia Yias and morning moons. 

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Somewhere in Greece, she’s not our home anymore. The ones who called it home died 4,577 miles and two plane flights away, bitter and angry and playing games of revenge. 

 

Somewhere in Greece, a family left, and somewhere in America a family shattered across their American dreams.