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Cr Pompeu Fabra 127-129
08226 Terrassa
Tel: 93 735 40 41

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They are acquainted with reduction. Waking up every morning before the unforgiving solar can shine by the window, they dress from head to toe in thick, black clothes that would not enable in the light – of the working day or of the spirit.

The black attire signifies the standing of a widow, of a stoic mourning is only shown by means of the color of clothes, hardly ever via emotion. The girls are like the olive trees, which reside in soil so dry that it crunches underneath your toes as you walk. Someway, they manage to improve anyway persistence and stubborn endurance are all they know. The trees can improve through rock, dwell without the need of rain.

They stagger, twisting and turning toward the heights in spite of the farmer’s careless pruning the mere make any difference of amputated limbs will not quit them. When I was five or 6, I imagined that my Yaya was the most lovely girl in the environment, with her wiry white hair contemporary out of curlers and chuckle lines displaying all over her eyes like a map of all of her periods invested smiling. She applied to sing a song called “Μαρία με τα Κίτρινα,” “Maria in Yellow,” and we would chuckle mainly because Yaya also had a yellow gown, but she did not emulate the risqué actions of Maria, who could not choose whom she liked more, “τον άντρα σου ή τον γείτονα” her partner or her subsequent-doorway neighbor. As I obtained more mature, I understood that there pay to write paper are much more stress lines than chuckle lines. Deep trenches of lineaments cross her forehead, revealing the hardships of a childhood expended in poverty.

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Extra popular than her crow’s feet are the wrinkles etched into her eyelids, from squeezing her eyes tightly shut, seeking to block out the suffering of acquiring her daughter taken from her, just after only 18 many years on this earth, by the unrelenting grip of an untimely dying. The most latest are the traces chiseled all around her thin mouth, as if out of marble. They are from pursing her lips in an try to suppress the ache immediately after my Papou was taken by the similar cruel fingers that took her daughter absent, but this time, people hands seemed like cancer. The yellow gown went absent just after Papou died. As did the levity with which we utilized to make entertaining of Maria’s silly infidelity. The black apparel are suffocating they invite the sunshine to conquer down with a lot more cruelty than before. Once the solar begins to established and the day cools, my Yaya and the other gals of the village undertaking out of their homes, carrying olive-oil lamps to their husbands’ graves, the lineaments of their faces illuminated by the lanterns. The strains are unforgiving, the trenches have been dug, the stalemate among the want of joy close to the eyes and the stubborn endurance of suffering all around the silent lips wages on. However, I know a mystery.

When the sunshine sets in southern Greece, it rains. No subject how helpless the olive trees appear, rain will come. When Yaya gets home from the cemetery, she closes the shutters and peels off the black clothing, folding them cautiously and placing them on the dresser, subsequent to Papou’s previous bifocals. Yaya has a top secret drawer of floral nightgowns that she only wears when the working day has finished and the sunshine can no for a longer period punish her misfortune.

Maria’s yellow costume is very long absent, but the pinks and blues and purples are even now there. I like to feel that the other widows also have secret stashes of mild, brightly coloured clothing.

The olive trees prosper and produce fruit despite the oppression of the sunlight.

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