I wrote this on the 26th, but forgot to put it up.
Prompt: write from the point of view of a woman (actually 3, but I ran out of time) from Marmora.
I had to look up Marmora. There's one in Ontario, one in New Jersey, and one in Greece. Greece sounded so much more interesting.
I could hear Papa’s voice on the balcony, loud and booming through the blue-framed windows. From the kitchen, I couldn’t tell what he was saying, but I knew he was telling one of his funny stories – probably one he had told a hundred times already. His voice crescendoed, and then he paused, and it seemed as though the whole house held its breath.
In my mind’s eye, I could see him quietly uttering the next words with a nonchalant wave of his hand the way he always did, as though the punch line was nothing. Suddenly, all the friends and family crowded onto our tiny balcony burst into guffaws, and I smiled.
I placed the last of the hot keftedes and spanakopita triangles onto platters. They steamed and filled the kitchen with the savory scent of mint, paprika, and feta. My mouth watered, and I couldn’t help snatching one of the little meatballs for myself.
I carried the platters out to the balcony, still loud with the sound of laughter and chatter. The warm, salty evening air mingled with the rich spices; it was the smell of every summer I had ever known. One of my uncles stood so I could sit in his chair. I thanked him with a kiss, then popped another meatball in my mouth and settled in to listen to another of Papa’s stories.