A Small Piece of Wisdom

Friday nights alone with my yiayia would probably not find themselves high up on my list of favorite things to do; in fact, I would venture to say that they rank pretty highly on my list of things to avoid. Yet, one Friday evening a few Decembers ago I found myself sprawled out next to her on the living room couch, sweating through my shorts and t-shirt. The fire-place to the right blasted as much heat into the room as the ancient radiator (which I’m pretty sure is against fire codes) to the left, and yet she still decided we both needed a “light” wool blanket for that extra layer of warmth.
Suddenly, with a doleful look, my yiayia silenced the Greek news anchors reporting full volume out of the T.V. and stared vacantly into the fire-place. I’d noticed sometimes she had bouts of sadness, but I had always figured them simply natural parts of growing old; as if they came packaged along with the wrinkles and dentures.
Without averting attention from the fire she said, “Theo (uncle) Kosta is really sick.”
I looked at her and nodded sympathetically. Parkinson’s disease is a tragic illness and I care about my great uncle a very much. However, at that particular moment I was preoccupied with evaluating whether there were any other articles of clothing I could remove without provoking a lecture on modesty. Most of our conversations in the past began with her convincing me she’d be dead by the end of the week, and ended with her telling me that I was too young to be talking about death; thus I prepared myself for a fast-paced speech of muddled Greek and English about how dreadful it is to be old.
A melancholy smile lined her lips. “The fire,” she said, “reminds me of when we were young.”
Suddenly, my body temperature became infinitely less important; my yiayia rarely talked about her and her seven brothers and sisters. I listened fervently devouring the story she told of the five siblings that traveled together to America. They were all homesick at first, but three of them, including my yiayia, moved on. These three got married, had families, and lived happily. The two remaining sisters, however, refused to be content in America. They refused comfort from their happy siblings, and became consumed by jealousy. The two unhappy sisters, one of which was my yiayia’s closest sibling growing up, stopped speaking to the rest of the family, and eventually lost contact completely. My yiayia didn’t even know if they were still alive while she was telling me the story.
I desperately wanted to say something profound to let her know I was listening, but all I could think of was, “that’s so sad.”
She turned to me square in the face and said in pure English, “Anna, you find what you look for. If you look for the worst, you find it. Always look for the best.”
We sat next to each other for a while in silence beneath the wool blanket, and then went to bed.
That night turned out to be one of the best experiences I have ever had, and I’ve looked forward to every Friday night with my yiayia since.