Being Alive

It means so much to me

that you love my cooking.

I made it with my hands

I pounded and wept for you

the ingredients, my heartache.

Why are you alive?

I should have died at least 

three times.

The first was in 1977

as my head hit the dashboard

and no one understood

how an eight-year old girl

only got away with her foot in

Χόρτα (some kind of grass meal).

The second time was in 1991

in the mountains of Crete

with no gas

and the sight of the cliffs

making me think

there is no one to call

but God himself.

The best attention is no attention.

In 2013

when a car crashed

into my life

and changed every

unwritten chapter.

I will never be the same again.

And to be honest,

I never want to

but being alive

is not what it used to be.

 

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