Homes are committed to my memory in color. Cairo was the dance between beige and gold. Jerusalem was rosy-hued. Guatemala was terracotta. Uganda was red.
Greece is a memory in green and blue.
It is frappe foam at the bottom of a cup and sand in the anti-itch cream.
The constant waving of arms above a salad to chase the flies away from the feta.
It is sand trapped in your sunscreen, flicked onto your legs by children racing to the sea.
It is grains of sand and salt at the roof of your mouth.
It is sand between your toes, sand everywhere.
Sunscreen spots on a Kindle. The constant turning of pages, the squint of eyes reading in the sun.
The redness of a nose or a shoulder that got away from the constant lathering.
Body heat on the sheets.
Turning over the pillow for a sunburned cheek to meet its cool match.
The strumming of a bouzouki at a tavern, the jingle of the same six summer songs.
Everyone hums the lyrics. Three summers from now, these songs will be 2012 in our memory.
It is the constant scratching. The mosquito in your ear, the fly landing on your leg to wake you up.
The whooshing of boats. The sails backlit by the setting sun. The waves that ring after their passage.
Marmalade and fresh tomatoes and crushed ice. All in the same meal, because you can.
Tsipouro, mine with anise, hers without.
Exposed backs, visible collarbones. Legs that will stubbornly not slide into pants. Legs everywhere.
Sandals with criss-crossed ribbons over feet. Bracelets jingling when the arms dance.
Dancing. Feverish, drenched-in-sweat dancing.
Dancing on beach chairs, in the street, on sand, on tables even. Summer is for the swaying of hips.
For remembering a laugh you had forgotten you had. For giggling into the night.
For soccer, for the game debrief on the balcony.
For the balcony.
It is for the car windows. Up and down. A/C on and off. And windows again.
Hair swirling in the wind, sweat dripping onto the back seat.
Greek summer is for non-problems: warm beer, a book that was finished too quickly.
The Sunday night traffic jam. The slow crawl into the city. The stop for calamari along the way.
The cooler stuck between us in the back seat. Everything stuffed on top of it and into it and behind it.
Greek summer is for the heavy cars, filled with girls, and ice, and umbrellas, and memories.
Greek summer is for gratitude, for green and for blue.