Then it hits me: chlorine, summer heat, the scratch of concrete pool deck against my pruned toes. “The Hamilton Hotel pool,” I mumble. “I was terrified of the deep end. He spent hours in that water, holding me up by my belly while I flailed around and cried.” I can still feel his hands, steady and sure, promising I wouldn’t sink. “He kept saying, ‘Trust me, neraïdoula mou. Baba’s got you.’“
Even that memory has a shadow. All those swimming lessons, and he still let me drown in waters far deeper than any hotel pool.
But that’s not the story we’re telling tonight. Tonight, we’re remembering the father who wore a captain’s hat and smelled like flour and lost at chess and held his daughter up until she learned how to float.
“He loved you both,” Mama says, voice cracking. “In his way.”
Jasm
