A memory

It was Psychosabbath. Katina had woken up early to attend the church service. She and her sister Despina had gathered the day before to prepare the offerings. But no blessing or prayer from a priest can ease the pain. It's been four years since her son, her pride, was lost at sea. Charalambos—her Bambis, as she called him—was lost. Lost, not dead. It’s easier for a mother to be told her child has died than that he is missing.

On the street, the village women looked at her with pity. Their sons had returned, were married with children, had built fortunes through trade. Only hers—her Charalambos—remained lost. He had always stood out from other children. He was the first to walk, the first to say “mama,” the first in football, in school, in cleverness. He was the pride of all of Lemnos.

So when, at eighteen, a grown man, he told her he wanted to become a captain, no one was surprised. The boy had saltwater in his blood. He wouldn't leave the sea for anything. “My little fisherman,” Lady Katina would call him, and Despina would giggle. Naturally, once he had learned the sea, he wanted to conquer it.

One day, he wore his naval uniform—he was still in the service then. Lady Katina’s knees trembled as she bid him farewell. He assured her that in three years, he’d return with riches and a fairy by his side. He would have a child—and if it were a girl, it would bear her name. If it were a boy, it would be named after his late father, Mr. Kostas, a kind and gentle man who had loved Katina deeply. He spoke of plans and dreams. His voice wrapped around his mother’s shoulders, letting her believe, letting her hope. But life had other plans.

The years passed. Lady Katina began every conversation with “When my Bambis comes back from the ships…” At first, she worried, but when Bambis would send a letter and they’d take it to Flora, the neighbor, to read aloud along with the others' sons’ letters, she felt relief. He wrote about seagulls shielding him from the scorching sun, about deep blue harbors he could barely resist diving into, about nights singing with the boatswains. But he didn’t mince words—he wrote about the exploitation he saw, how people sold their wares at high prices and haggled, about the shouting, the chaos. He even wrote about a storm that hit them—but they were well-prepared and saved the deck.

Little by little, by the third year, the young men began returning. First Seraphim, Argyris’s son, came back rich, with a girl clinging to his arm. Then Giannis, Dr. Loukas’s son, returned—almost unrecognizable, broader, stronger. Finally, Euthymis, son of Nicole—a foreign woman married to a local—came back, and every night, they’d hear him snoring. Only her son didn’t come back. Only hers was missing.

Some said there was another storm and he was struck by lightning. Others whispered of pirate attacks and that he’d been taken as a slave. There were days when Lady Katina prayed they would find his bones, so her child wouldn’t suffer anymore. She imagined him as the boy she had said goodbye to. She imagined him as a groom, tears welling at the thought of a good woman beside him. Why did all the others get to come back? What made them more worthy?

She remembered how, when he was little, he’d stay out playing late, stuffing his clothes under the blankets to make it look like someone was in bed—and she believed it. She laughed at her own gullibility. She remembered how the doctor once told her she had low iron, and Bambis promised he’d take care of her when he grew up, that she needn’t worry about a thing. God Almighty, how much she missed him. She had grown used to him being far away only by clinging to the hope she might see him again someday. No one had ever warned her the end might be final.

She remembered how, as a child, he’d ask for sea bream every day, and she’d scold him for being greedy. Now she cooked a whole bucket of sea bream every time she heard a ship had docked at the island. Her grandmother had once told her she’d face a great sorrow in old age. But this—this wasn’t sorrow. This was death itself.

At times, she’d imagine him still out at sea, having found a siren to keep him company. In her mind, she’d scold him: “You scoundrel, having fun while your mother worries?” And this worry had spread across her entire face, making her unrecognizable—she was afraid to look in the mirror now, for she saw a terrifying old woman, the kind she’d avoided in her youth. But it didn’t matter, she thought. Let him be dead, let him be gone—even if it meant she had to disappear too. He had been lost long enough for her sake.