To the saint in Alexandria,
where salt kissed stones
and questions lingered.
"Katerinaki mou,"
her father coaxed,
but her hands held
too much—
knowledge,
faith,
defiance.
The wheel turned,
but she didn’t break.
Now, the world spins faster,
and she walks where it's quiet,
and her breath holds the centre.
To my aunt Katina,
who buried three children
and crossed an ocean,
and never
left her village.
She remembers it—
the rough warmth of hands,
the press of bark,
the heat of stone.
"
Katerinaki mou,"
they called her,
but the name couldn't hold
the weight of her loss.
Now she moves through cities
made of broken things,
lifting what is left,
shaping hope
with her hands.
To my friend Catherine,
who sold vitamins in Chicago,
her suitcase filled
with promises
and prayers.
"Katerinaki mou"
she whispers at night,
praying softly for a husband,
her voice a faint song
lost among stars.
To all the Katherines—
saint, aunt, friend.
Not small.
Not perfect.
Not spared.
"Katerinaki mou,"
their names echo,
carrying the sea,
lifting what is broken,
quiet hymns—
for what remains.
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