Yaya’s Easter

She was “Mana” to five, and when the first
of her grandchildren came, she was “Yaya” thereafter—
to him, his cousins, her own children and the world.

Does nobody remember she was born “Melina?”
Melina. Honey. The honey of her amber hair,
unexpectedly light above her creamy olive skin
and the startling Aegean blue of her eyes.

Melina. The honey that came from the wild thyme
whose heady scent mingled with that of the sea.
The honey taste of a lover’s kiss,
or walnuts and phyllo in baklava.
The honey of leaves on a Massachusetts maple,
seven thousand miles and sixty years
from a small fishing village in Greece.

Yaya hasn’t walked for a dozen years
in the solemn procession of Great Friday.
The priest, in deep purple from head to foot,
leads the parishioners as he carries the cross
from the sanctuary in the somber parade.
But this year Melina is adamant,
and walks several blocks until, lagging behind,
she quietly yields to a daughter’s pleas
and gets into the car with a gentle sigh.

On Saturday—as some believe God did—
she rests, and, feeling less mortal now,
prepares the feast for the Holy Pascha.
The eggs are dyed a brilliant red
and braided into the challah-like tsoureki.
The lamb is roasted to redolent perfection.
Melina’s spirits have risen like God,
and with his help she will perhaps
see another Easter come and go.