Patchwork Genes in Black

Yesterday I lost a dear friend, Xenia. She was in her late 40's and died of breast cancer. She was my first Cypriot friend in the village, six years ago. She taught me my first Greek words, clapped her hands with delight at my cards (Cypriots do not send greetings cards) and attempted to read my first poetry book. She stroked the cover so lovingly, I will never forget that gesture. She could not understand the words, but loved the gift I had given her. She knew it meant something to me.

She gave me so many firsts here in Cyprus, for which I am grateful. She comforted me when I missed my children in the UK. She gave me the courage to live in my village. Should the Turks invade again, as they did when she was a young teenager, I could survive as she had. She taught me how to eat from the hedgerows, and how to find places to hide. None of it scared me. I knew she had my best interests at heart.

Sadly, tomorrow she will be the reason I attend my first Cypriot funeral for a friend.

Today I sat with the family and looked at her sad husband. Then I watched her three children. Her 19 year old daughter, her 21 year old son and her eldest girl of 23. Each one bears a resemblance to my friend. I watched her eldest try and greet as her mother would have done, it overwhelmed her. Then my friend's  mother walked in the room...then came the poem; Patchwork Genes in Black.

A blackened room.

We sit; our clothing-black.

You would have despised it-

but gracefully accepted the respect.

You with your vibrant, fashionable red curls;

covering your ancestral tint.

Orange scarves smothering

chemical split ends and white stubble

hides nothing from me.

I see you in this blackened room.

White smile-hidden by black blood spittle-

a falsehood-a wicked lie in my eyes.

Now they only see your soul in the mirror of others-

and you- my eyes see your red locks and white smile.

I see you in this blackened room.

A man in tears, knees wrinkled from prayer,

a girl- a childwoman, a boy with a man’s age-

Another girl-the other you. She slips on your shoes-

Their length too long, their width- ocean wide.

she cries for her inadequecies- black comfort-size zero.

I see you in this blackened room

they have yet to see it-your legacy.

Strands of your hair, glimpses of a white smile yet to shine through,

They are there; in those dressed in black-

Childwoman, Boy and TheOtherYou-

I stare through moving glass eyes that glisten in the sun.

Then in walks your mother-I see you in black-I cry.