St. Nektarios
Long before the sleepy island of Ikaria, known for its all-night panagiria, awakes, I walk to the outskirts of the village where my dad grew up and find an old donkey path that leads through the summer brush. I walk, hurriedly, with no particular destination. It is 1998. I’ve come to the home of my ancestors to mourn my mother, to come to terms with my father’s complicated story. A week earlier, my great-aunt Agglaia died while taking her morning swim. The same week, my Thea Sofia began to experience intense stomach pains, and the night before she had been lying on her couch, writhing in pain. I suspect she has cancer--something about the way she describes her symptoms, the hollowing of her face. When I wake, I feel restless, overcome with grief. And so I walk. I come around a bend when it appears suddenly: a small, white chapel a little off the path. I try the door, but it’s locked. On impulse, I run my hand over the top of the arched doorway and find a k...