Greek Diaries
It feels like each year we wade ourselves through the cold days, the ones that stretch for months and hide the sun behind greying skies that open frequently and rain down upon us. We sulk and trudge, speaking ill of the winter’s weather as if announcing its icy touch will bring relief to the freeze taking hold of our bones. “Oh, but summer was glorious!” We announce – ever excited for its return yet once again saddened by the rapidity of its passing; its presence always missed even while it’s there. But again we await its showing. Longing for the rearing of the sun and the warm kiss of its rays.
And when it finally does, you and I escape.
To a state where the liberation of our being is welcomed by the air that surrounds us, and free and naked we bathe in the sunlight, letting it lap up the salted mix of sea and sweat our bodies become.
And when we find a location of meaning, one which provides the aforementioned sense of freedom and lets the queerness of our existent love radiate, we return. We become familiar with the rigidness of its landscape; where the jagged becomes flat and we can lay blanket and body down, nestling into the cavities of rock where shade keeps your face from the sun; where the water only ever gently wets our toes at high tide, never having to flee from its temper; where our closeness can remain hidden from prying eyes, should we choose it to be.
Every year, over the course of a few weeks, I watch your hair and your skin slowly golden – albeit less so around your waist, where your swimsuit sits hugging your bum and hips so perfectly that my glances frequently become stares. And as I watch you dive into Grecian waters, with only your head or occasional flash of swim brief to look for in the blue, I trace the direction of your wake until you climb back, greeting me with an ocean soaked kiss before letting yourself dry against the hot stone underneath.
During this time we traverse town and city, forest and sea, finding new corners for our love to blossom so as to grow together rather than apart. From Athens to the windy isles of Andros and Tinos, stopping to admire the beauty of Syros and the tasty spoils it collects from the ocean, we cement ourselves in the present summer, aware of its fast approaching demise.
We will always question our decision to live far from the sun’s glory, away from ever-present sunkissed smiles and oiled skin, yet we know its return lurks distant on the horizon and we will be prepared for its arrival long in advance.
For summer is ours, my love. No matter at which point it will bellow its warmth, our sanctuary remains secure.
Await we shall, for the next time our kiss is met with sunshine.
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