LAST LOAF OF BREAD Nonfiction by Emilie Kefalas
In school, teachers were considerate enough to abbreviate my Greek last name, which followed my very xeno-sounding first and middle ones. “Xeno” translates as “stranger” but Dad’s side, specifically my Thea Antonia (great aunt Antonia, though we call her Thea or Tony), uses it when referring to non-Greeks. Thea converses with my sisters and me in quick phrases of “Fére mou éna potíri neró, chorís págo,” (‘Get me a glass of water, no ice’), and like a good great aunt, she taught us exclamations like “skáse” (‘shut up’), “ti symvaínei” (‘what’s up’), and my favorite, “Fýge chaménos, mou arései o fílos sas” (‘Go away loser, I like your friend’). Thea’s accent has always been the thickest and most distinct, unmistakably Greek of the family, even though she has blonde hair and has lived in the United States since 1975. She is probably five foot three inches, because I am five foot fiveand-a-half inches, and when I hug her, her hair gets in my mouth. She showed us around Greece when we visited my Yia Yia’s parents’ home on Andros, an island about an hour ferry ride away from the mainland. Her shrewd negotiations helped lower the prices of three hand-painted serving dishes; Mom got one, Thea got one, and Yia Yia got one. Yia Yia was also short, but even shorter than Thea. It got to the point I slightly bent over to make her feel like she was not shrinking. Toward her end, which was this past fall, she was faded, shaking at the breakfast table, and the veins on her hands and arms were almost transparent. I was barely 22 and tried to do as much as I could to prevent her from getting up; she tired easily, and I was afraid she would fall over her shoelace or my Papou’s, a silly “what if” in retrospect since both wore orthopedics.
48