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because it would keep me warm in the dark wintry days.
    The more my aunt described the plants and flowers around us, her passion was contagious and I began to laugh and enjoy the beautiful flora and undergrowth. And in doing so, I forgot all about my mother’s lecture earlier in the day. It was definitely behind me and I started shouting, “Yes, auntie I see, I see!”
    Now as I lean on the window’s sill, I see the greenness around me that my daughter noticed this morning. She’ll return soon to tell me all about the shoots in the ground, and all the different birds, mammals and insects she had noticed in the park. I’ll listen to her with interest and show her the same attention I had displayed on that day when my aunt helped me discover the beautiful life around me. I’ll tell her about the importance of the rising sun. And I’ll even answer her questions about baking those cookies for the upcoming holiday.

The Sunset Years
    The mind is its own place, and it can make a heaven of hell and a hell of heaven
. -John Milton,
Paradise Lost
    I was standing in the wide corridor when she appeared in the doorway of her room. Directly behind her the open window cut a piece of sunlight that silhouetted her tiny figure, with a slight hunchback. Frail, she moved slowly, in her fluffy brown slippers, with her reed-like limbs below her dark cotton dress. I noticed that she was guarding something with both hands, but at first I could not make out what it was. It looked like a package of some sort, or a tiny box. When she came a bit closer, I realized it was a tattered leather pouch, jam-packed with something. Holding it tightly to her chest, she approached, hesitant, closer to the doorway, looked right, then left and came and stood before me. She probably could not see me very well, for she stood on tip-toe and opened her eyes widely.
    â€œNadia, have you seen, Nadia…, want to see her so much. You saw her, why hasn’t she come?” Her trembling voice and short breath caught me off guard.
    â€œI… don’t know…, no, I’ve not seen her, really I do not know,” I said in a confused manner. She then lifted her right hand and motioned me to wait until she came back; she went in slowly and reappeared with a framed photograph of a pretty brunette in a graduation gown. “My daughter, my Nadia,” she said in a warm and proud voice, as her illuminant eyes decorated her entire face.
    That’s how I met Mrs. Petakis, the old lady who gave me some insights about life’s humble, but most important things. She was in the Hellenic Villa, a care facility for the elderly, situated in Toronto’s west end. Built further back from the curb, and surrounded by trees, its location projected a park-like setting. The building’s light brick and colourful trimmings and its cozy balconies embellished the entire neighbourhood. Its imposing awning above the main entrance, triangular in shape and made of glass, gave it a presence just behind the circular driveway. Great care had been taken to beautify its interior as well. The high ceilings and large windows made the foyer and gathering place transparent, the ample sunlight that flooded inside created the sense that the garden itself was part of the main floor, all green and flowery.
    I lived in a house, almost directly across from the Hellenic Villa, and I know that my neighbours admired the facility; many participated in its fundraising activities and volunteered there. A big fan of the building (even though she had not stepped inside) was my next door neighbor Mrs. Souris, a petit woman in her late sixties, but in full vigour, with a dark complexion and beady eyes. From a small village just outside Sparti in southern Greece, she had come to Toronto in her mid-thirties. She now cared for her two grandchildren, a girl of about six and the three-year-old boy—her two ‘brats’ as she called them. With a broom in hand,