To μισό καρπούζι - Τhe half watermellon

I took my yiayia to the supermarket. In my head, but still.

We reach the watermelons and she stops. Because here, they cut them in half, wrap the half in plastic, and set it out like it is nothing.

She brightens. «Ωραία. They cut it in half so you can taste it, to see if it is good.» Lovely. They cut it in half so you can taste it.

And before I can say a word, she is already in her bag. That bottomless Greek purse that holds a whole house. Keys. A candle. Someone's baptism favor from 1994. And then, of course, her little Swiss army knife.

Right there in the aisle, she cuts. She hands a piece to a boy stacking oranges. A piece to a woman pushing a cart. A piece to a man who only came in for batteries.

«Ελάτε. Φάτε.» Come. Eat.

"No, yiayia," I try. "They don't cut it for tasting. They sell it like this. You buy the half."

She goes very still. She looks at the half in her hand. She looks up.

«Παναγία μου. Μα αν είναι δυνατόν.» Holy Mother. But is it possible.

«Ασχτίρ τώρα. Θέλω ένα ολόκληρο καρπούζι και δεν μπορώ να βρω.» Oh come on. I want a whole watermelon and I cannot even find one.

She spots a young employee who has done nothing wrong in his entire life and waves him over like he personally did this.

"You. Come here."

The boy opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. And just like that she softens, because he is young and someone should feed him. She takes his arm like he is already her grandson.

«Έλα, παιδί μου.» "You go to the back and you find me a whole one. A real one. And make sure it is fresh, εντάξει; Μη μου φέρεις ότι και ότι." Come, my child. Make sure it is fresh, okay? Do not bring me any old thing.

The boy goes. He comes back holding a whole watermelon in both hands. She turns it over once, checks it the way she checks everything, gives one small nod.

«Μπράβο, παιδί μου. Να 'σαι καλά, αγόρι μου. Ο Θεός να σ' έχει καλά.» Well done, my child. Bless you, my boy. God keep you well.

And the strangers are still standing there, still eating, because when she offers, you do not say no. You cannot. Nobody ever has.

You never left Piraeus, yiayia. You walked into a store that sells half a fruit, decided it was a gift for everyone, and started giving it away before anyone could explain the rules. And honestly? Your way was better.

«Αύριο.» The window where you buy food without leaving the car. Neither of us is ready.