by Eileen Drapiza
Eons ago, on vacation from our then life in London, we pedaled around Crete, and I chewed on the names of Greek towns. “Chania” felt strange and enchanting in my mouth, and I wondered if it might be a woman’s name (I later learned it is a Hebrew name). The town was a pretty place, freshly whitewashed buildings accented with brilliant blue painted on doors and window frames. We meandered down winding cobblestone alleyways lined with shops selling lovely trinkets. I stopped in one and bought a ring—a round disc of cobalt-colored lapis with a small silver bobble arising from its center, an eye talisman, a modern design for an ancient theme.
Too quickly it was time to move on from such a charming place and it left me feeling wistful as we pushed off on our bikes and rode eastward. We eventually stopped for a drink at a barren spot along the road. The signpost read “Malia.” When we wiped the water from our lips and pulled a guidebook from a pannier, we were incredulous that we might have ridden past and missed an ancient Minoan palace, unaware. We considered a detour to visit, but we also knew the lure of archeological sites, and that lacking a full history and strong enough imagination, we would only ever have vague hints at its full truth, and it might feel disappointing. So, having to rush around to look at ruins on that day held little appeal. As it was already afternoon, we decided instead to press on to our destination—a ride that was still several hours away. And with each downward stroke as I pedaled onward, something inside me was repeating the name of that dusty town, and that ancient palace, “Malia, Malia,” as though I were calling out, but why and to whom?
A tumultuous decade or so later, in a tall hotel overlooking the snaking Yangtze River in Chongqing, China, there was a loud knock at our door. The long pregnant pause of the morning gave way to a dark-haired woman holding a scared, wailing infant with three ponytails fanning out around her head. I could see tiny front teeth as she cried, open mouthed. The reluctant 11 mo. old was placed in my arms as the nanny crossed the threshold into our room, speaking to us in Mandarin. We did not understand and awkwardly busied ourselves preparing a bottle of formula while we waited for the interpreter to arrive.
The passage of time often catches me off guard, and more and more frequently these days I notice that thinking about events of the past make me ask, “how can it be that long since…?” Today is no exception.
It’s a cool November morning in Berkeley and fragments of memories float and swirl in my head. I glance out the window and spy my daughter’s bouncy descent on the front garden stairs outside our home, she’s headed to school. On those same steps I remember how I used to tug at her small hand as she made achingly slow progress. “C’mon, we’ll be late for preschool!” I had to coax her to keep moving forward, frustration building at a toddler’s instinct to stop at every flower along the path. “Are you part bumblebee?” I asked, trying to mask my snideness with a joke. I see now that it was my own concept of time that was all out of whack. In my rushing around back then, I didn’t know that such fleeting early moments would become so searing and expansively regretful when I eventually looked back. From this vantage point, I wish I had slowed down and enjoyed smelling each flower with her. It was preschool after all — we could have played hooky! But that moment is long gone; she’s been submitting college applications this past week. I quickly unlatch the window and lean out. “Malia! Malia!” I call out.
An indistinct feeling is welling up—moisture gathers in my eyes; tears begin to spill down my face. It’s always been hard to let myself feel sadness, but now I have no power to stop it. I nervously fiddle with my round lapis ring with the silver bobble from so long ago. I want to tell her I’m sorry for shouting the other night when I blew up about her queenly spending habits. I want to soften and remind her; it’s been 16 years since we brought her home on a foggy November morning. I want to point out that we got out of a yellow taxicab right there just steps away from where she stands now as a blossoming young woman.
I had been so weary and off kilter from lack of sleep after such a long journey home that had included multiple connecting flights. I had carefully lifted her from the taxi and carried her up the steps to her new home, cradled tightly in my arms, a small bundle dressed in the un-childlike sweater I had made for her from thick Japanese yarn—the colors: cream, pink, purple, and black faded in and out to make a striped ombre effect on a knitted piece—while her dad pulled our bags from the trunk.
Her slender figure on the sidewalk below turns toward me. She locks her gaze on mine for the briefest moment and flashes a sweet smile, gives me a quick wave that says Mom, can’t stop or I’m going to be late! And in the next moment she turns the corner and she’s gone; the name I called out, still reverberating in the air.
Eileen Drapiza is a writer-mom and psychotherapist in Berkeley, CA. She posts her work as on “Short Small Stack” a private Substack newsletter
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