“One
good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain”
-Bob Marley
My
dad literally is, the nicest and happiest man on this planet.
He is vivacious and
funny, a man with a dancing spirit, filled with song and a chubby glee. He
played his guitar at family parties, sang songs while others around him were
having conversation, and danced Zembekiko around a shot of cognac, at
every baptism, wedding and holiday party. He was always a hit, the one Greek
that others sought after to surround themselves around his naturally happy
energy. He is one of the guys.
My father’s biggest
pride and joy was that he was in love with his roles as Daddy and Husband. He
perfected the art of being a Daddy and knew how to love his woman. He loved
being the provider and leader. Seeing his wife and kids smile, hearing us
laugh, running up to him when he came home from work, that’s what validated his
hard-working life. When he played the guitar, my sister would sit at his feet
watching him play. My brother mimicked the way he danced. I took mental note of
his captivating performances (they were awe-inspiring) and my Mother would yell
from the kitchen, that we were too loud. Imagine that, a Greek woman yelling
that we were too loud.
His gentleness came from
his heart. Always give and always help. As much as you can. He has a
willingness to give because he wanted to. He gave because he recognized the
need the person was in. He has this ability to make every problem go away,
while leaving a bit of his happiness with that person.
I wish his gift of
happy-giving could take away the problem of diabetes.
Diabetes affects
millions of people each year. My father is one of those people who are affected. He’s
become adjusted to the glucose levels being uneven and taking insulin shots. He
knows the consequences his poor eating habits will have on his heart, blood
vessels and kidneys. But it’s really hard to ignore the demanding scent of a
charbroiled burger, or the smells of homemade potatoes with lamb cooking in the
oven. It’s hard to avoid a freshly-cut piece of baklava, or pass over a
slice of pepperoni pizza. It’s difficult to pass those feel-good foods when
they’re sitting right in front of you. Rejecting food as a diabetic is
arduously the most challenging diet ever.
The gradual effects of
diabetes target specific parts of the body. If it’s not treated properly, it
can damage his heart, which beats only for his kids and his wife. His
unconditional loving heart for music, dance and joy is a target.
Diabetes
can also address and point at his eyesight. His eyes that emanate a joyous glee
and tear up at sentimental movies, his small brown eyes might glow with an
elated delight and devotion. His modest eyes smile at the first glance of our
presence, beam at the sight of the Ionian Sea. They light up when his eyes see
a lamb turning on the spit, and they glow when a performance of the bouzouki is bestowed in front of him. His
eyesight may slowly leave him, but it won’t remove his warm love.
Diabetes
is talented in the art of rhetoric. It can make a person in the advanced stage,
ask the same question a hundred different ways. FBI interrogators could learn
something from those. Diabetes directs itself unto the brain, slowly chipping
away the loving memories he’s collected over the years, erasing important
information and replacing it with the mundane personality of a broken record.
The hardest part for him
is trying not to forget the lyrics to his favorite songs. It’s becoming
difficult to remember the softness of the bass versus the accordion to his
favorite Stratos Dionisios songs. 
There is a strong possibility that the loss
of remembering the proper way to hold the bouzouki frightens him. There is fear of losing the
songs of his era that are permanently embedded in his mind. The stance of the Zembekiko
is practiced, but movement is slow. It’s the fear of forgetting the way the
Zakynthian sun settles into the ocean; the anxiety of, unknowingly, losing the
memory of when he first laid eyes on my mother’s natural beauty.
There is a strong possibility that the loss
of remembering the proper way to hold the bouzouki frightens him. There is fear of losing the
songs of his era that are permanently embedded in his mind. The stance of the Zembekiko
is practiced, but movement is slow. It’s the fear of forgetting the way the
Zakynthian sun settles into the ocean; the anxiety of, unknowingly, losing the
memory of when he first laid eyes on my mother’s natural beauty. 
The hardest part isn’t losing
the music that lives within him.
It’s the fact that the
music will be lost without him.
