Sióra Gazi had told me that a boy child is a blessing to his mother. We did not need to discuss what a girl child would mean for me, as we both knew. The Sióra said that in times of strife or before a physical separation with the father, place the boy in front of the man. Make the father see his son. Remind the father that his blood runs through the boy’s veins. “Your body will fade, Rosa, but this being who was once a part of you will always keep his father’s attention,” advised the Sióra. “Unless the father is a snake,” she warned. “God does not give many advantages to women, but He does give us boys, Rosa.”

“George will need new clothes soon. He is growing so big and strong,” I cooed. “George has such an appetite. Soon he will eat only beef, like his father,” I sang.

George was at the center of all that I said to Charles during his last week on Santa Maura.

Elesa, you should write down the following. Patricio will want to know how he came into his names.

I told Charles that my blessed second would be a boy.

“How do you know, Cara Rosa, Cara Rosa?” he asked.

“I know because I am his mother,” I replied.

“Name him Patrick then,” Charles instructed, knowing that he would not be present for the birth or the Baptism.

I heard “Patrick” with its ugly clipped ending, a branch that has suddenly snapped, and I was already changing it to “Patricio,” which would leave the mouth opened and rounded, a cherry freed of its stone.

“He will be a fine lad of Ireland with that name,” Charles declared.

When you were baptized, Patricio, I added “Lafcadio.” That was the name of Iona’s fifth and last son. Old Iota wept as she stood by our sides.

Santa Maura became my island, Patricio. I was a married woman and the mother of two sons there, though these acts did not occur in the order that I would have preferred.

In the early mornings, I walked along the bay when the air smelled of drying fish and fennel fronds. In the hours before noon, I visited the merchants on the Central Square and bought trinkets and little charms to keep Giorgio safe, as he was not protected by God. On days when the sun baked the flat streets of Lefkada town, I asked Old Iota to hire for us a horse and cart and a driver who would take us to the nearby hillside, where the breezes fanned the leaves of the olive trees and the scent of ginestra soothed Giorgio’s crying.

Old Iota disappeared during these excursions. Even in her widow’s weeds, I could see that it was Iona who cradled you in her arms. Do you remember the ginestra, Patricio? The hills were golden, as if lit by a second sun when they were in bloom. A handful of thyme crushed in your hands, a butter cake, and a spoonful of light honey. Wherever you are now, my blessed second, if you can find these things, gather them together and that will be the scent of ginestra. Breathe in, Patricio, and you will remember your mother when she was at her happiest, your brother at his most hale, and the twins Old Iota and Iona who held you for the first two years of your life, as if you were their blessed own. Your father, you will not remember, because he was already afar.