Threads – For Eva

Dear readers, if you've ventured into my writings with an expectation of linear storytelling, I’m sorry to disappoint. Memories, much like our hearts, travel to places with their own distinct destinations. This week, death has been at the forefront of my thoughts, amplified by the unexpected loss of my dear friend Eva’s brother, Angelo. With the approach of Angelo’s impending service, memories of my own family, particularly those of my mother, have resurfaced.

My dear friend Eva’s grief, palpable and raw, has brought me to a reflective juncture. And as Angelo's earthly journey concludes, my mind finds its way to my mother, Evangelia, and her lessons on life, death, and the threads that connect us.

When I was a young child, my father, Nicolas, would often share stories of their courtship. And in one such story, he playfully described Evangelia as an emaciated heroine, a fragile beauty, draped in shadow, lost in contemplation amidst tombstones. Her raven-black hair swaying with her quiet sobs. This macabre image of her evoked laughter between us. But as I grew older, I realized her communion with the departed wasn't mere melancholy—it was reverence. For Evangelia, death wasn't an end, but a gossamer curtain.

The Greek Orthodox faith, intricate in its understanding of mortality, believes that after death, a soul embarks on a 40-day odyssey, revisiting cherished earthly places and people. Guiding this journey is the Archangel Michael, the protector of souls. In my home, I have a small iconostasis, a place where treasured icons are kept. Many of my icons were my mothers. One, in particular, of Michael the Archangel, carries names I barely recognize; and yet, uttering them binds me to souls I've never met.

My mother’s life centered around the Church. The Lenten “Saturdays of All Souls” were days she held close. And the act of sharing Koliva—those sweet wheat kernels—was more than a tradition; it was a bridge to those no longer with us. In our culture, the act of remembering often rests on the shoulders of women. Cloaked in black, these women are the silent chroniclers, the ones who ensure that stories aren't lost to the sands of time.

Now, with my daughter on the cusp of adulthood, I find myself passing down the significance of these rituals and caretaking traditions. The funeral for my first cousin, also named Evangelia, offered one such chance. After the graveside service, my daughter and I strolled through the Greek section of Forest Lawn. Our walk became a journey through time and connections, which began at the resting place of her grandparents, Nicolas and Evangelia. Fittingly, their graves sit near a small roadside chapel, at the corner of Ascension lane, a name that speaks volumes about life, death, and the cyclical nature of existence.

As I reflect upon Angelo’s unexpected passing and offer my shoulders as solace to my dear friend, Eva, I turn my thoughts to Brené Brown's “Atlas of the Heart” and these words, “The brokenhearted are the bravest among us - they dare to love.”

Love, in its most pure form, is both strength and vulnerability. Our rituals, some that we inherit by birthright, and others that we create ourselves, are guiding stars. Performing them illuminates the courage inherent in loving fiercely. Through every heartbreak, love’s noble dance persists, reinforcing that in grief, as in love, we remain bound by invisible threads, never truly solitary.

May Angelo’s memory be eternal.