Image courtesy of Caroline Shea ‘22
I reach into the depths of my backpack and become engulfed by a sense of relief when I feel the sharp metal object. I begin to pull it out, or at least try to. The key gets tangled in the pages and pages of Greek grammar notes shoved into my backpack. It’s been two months and I still don’t know how to conjugate the verb “ειμαι.” The key finally makes its way up into the fresh air of Pangrati. As the cool key hits my sweaty hand, I realize that I cut my index finger. The thick red blood oozes out; mocking me. Someone like me shouldn’t be here. Maybe I should stop the blood with my worksheets, I know I’ll never look at them anyway. I don’t belong here, I don’t belong anywhere.
I can’t jam the key into the door. Blood has already dropped on the bright yellow sticker that lies on the key. The color no longer matches that of the church across the street. Maybe I should start believing in God. If I believed in God, I would ask him why he created me this way. My key slides into the lock. I turn it with all my strength, but all my strength has been chipped away by conjugations. I can’t turn the key. The latch feels as though it is trying to help me, but I am too weak. People always try to help, but I still end up helpless. Why God? Why? The church bells start to ring. God, are you here?
My hand grabs the cool metal of the door handle. Blood just dripped on my white shoes. I am ready to surrender. Just then, the lock lets out the calmest “click.” I had been turning the key the wrong way. The door to the apartment swings open.
The black and white cat inside emerges from her slumber and comes over to greet me. She doesn’t make a comment about the blood.
I start to remember the calm click. “Ειμαι, είστε, ειμαι, εισαστε, ειμαστε, ειμαι” echoes in my mind. I can conjugate the verb. I can conjugate the verb to be.
The cat curls under my arm and closes her eyes. Blood is still dripping. I wrap my worksheet around it. The smallest part of me begins to think that this city loves me back.