Words All The Way Down

I wish that my mother hadn’t been so prudent, and my brother such a coward. Up on the cliff top, far behind us now, our village laid in ruin. The only indication that home once existed was a column of smoke winding towards the heavens as we fled down the mountains.

If we hadn’t left, at least I would be with my friends now. I had to watch as tiny specks fell hand in hand from the top of that cliff face, from the top of Zalongo. Neighbors so close I called them sister fled with children in hand from a fate worse than death, cheating the invaders of their spoils. My sisters were brave.

Word of their last dance spread like wildfire. By the time my family reached the port city, word surpassed us. No survivors the stories said. A testament to the indomitable spirit of the Greek people. Better one hour of freedom than forty years of slavery and prison. If only they knew.

We’ve purchased tickets to America. Maybe it will be easier to hide our shame there.

****

In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.

I haven’t danced since I left Greece; I missed my last chance. However, the children do. Something I would have thought impossible when I left all those years ago is now commonplace. At every wedding, at every church gathering, at every party, they dance.

At first, I was bitter. How could they dance? How could they celebrate? Each little hop was a mockery of those that flung themselves from the mountain.

Now, when the children dance, I see it for what it is. Not as a mockery of those that had to flee, but a tribute for the freedom they yearned for. Each time the children dance, it ensures that the memory of our little town lives on. And, for as long as they dance, our town will never be forgotten.

---

This story was inspired by the Dance of Zalongo.