Under the summer sky, we dance a kalamatianos in a large circle. We hold hands: I’ve got an aunt on my right, a jubilant cousin on my left. I trace and retrace my step – ten steps forward, two backward. The speakers play folk violin, and we step into the counter clockwise gyre of the dance, like a clock someone is hand-winding back. Up the chain are my brother and his bride, joyful cheeks illuminated. Dad and his dance floor native crew of relatives. An uncle and my godfather, showing off an optional, extra tricky move. My ever-reluctant mother, who probably wishes she was sitting down. My grandmothers, smiling their approval as they step along the circle. The ghosts of my aunt and my grandfathers, absent from this wedding. My great grandparents, who danced, too, in their villages, long ago. All of us figures from antiquity cut into marble, circling in time, hand in hand.
Kleopatra Olympiou is a writer from Cyprus. Her writing has appeared in Tiny Molecules, HAD, Raw Lit, FlashFlood, and elsewhere. She currently lives in London. Find her at kleopatraolympiou.com
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