Manamu

During the holidays travel craziness, nations split into lines at the JFK airport. Moroccans in front of Air Morocco, Turks in front of Turkish Airlines and Greeks in front of Olympus. Then it all becomes a big mess when everyone drops off their bags and rushes to go through passport control. The Mediterraneans form close knit groups that forgo any sense of personal space. Israelis look for ways to cut in, Swedes stand tall and above it all, Korean moms make sure their children don't stray far. And all wave good bye.

While leaving for Istanbul this year, I lined up behind a Greek woman waving 'adiosas' to her family. I wanted to hear her speak the beautiful, lyrical language. I missed my Grandma Marianthi, I missed my family speaking in Greek with her.

The woman's little granddaughter kept yelling, "Bye bye Yaya! Bye bye Yaya!" She replied to her, calling her with all the love words I heard growing up, "Bye bye manamu, aghorichimu, naseharo!" Same words my grandma would call out to me after I told her a story, did a dance for her, showed her something new I got from the street bazaar...or sometimes in the middle of the day, just cause.

The family exchanged more phrases about going there, coming back. I looked up at the ceiling and then to the flight board ahead, with tears trickling down my cheeks. They had not said anything to me. They were not aware of my eves dropping. I counted the arriving flights to divert my attention: Air Morocco, Turkish Airlines, Olympus.

And the little girl continued screaming - good bye Yaya! Bye Yaya!