Gran's rebel heart.

Gran Vaia is not a bad person. Kind hearted and smooth, she narrated numerous stories to me during my childhood. She spoke of the war, of granpa, life in the village, goats, high life, egg pancakes with sugar,  secrets for leek pies, her idea of happiness.

On one of my last trips from Athens to Tokyo, I promised her I'd find some time to go and say goodbye. I got there late and found her at her balcony. The one with the breathtaking view. She'd grown  anxious, terrified that I'd forgotten all about her.

She offered to make me a cup of coffee but I had no time so I refused. I stayed with her for about half an hour. We hardly spoke. We only exchanged a couple of words, I remember. She was sitting on a comfy chair near the balcony edge. I sat on the floor right in front of her. I lowered my head and let it lie on her lap. With clean, long strokes, her strong hands went over my hair. Again and again, my head became lighter, all real worries evaporated and only one heavy feeling was left. The realisation and fear of leaving her behind.

That is the last beautiful memory I have of my Gran.

She walks all over my daydreams now. With a shooting gun, she tries to spot the ones that do me wrong. And there are plenty of wrong-doers.

The time has come for the aged people to take on arms and bring some light in the darkness of this world.