Charles and I received the Sacrament of Marriage within the small, windowless Santa Paraskevi, two months after Giorgio was born. We lit our marriage candles there. The Reverend Father bound our right hands together there. He placed crowns of fresh myrtle leaves upon our heads there. The Reverend Father was a short man of God, and Charles had to get onto his knees to receive his crown. The sight of this made me smile. Our witnesses were the landlord and a butcher.

Lefkada town was blessed with churches. I had hoped for the Church of Agios Spyridon with its high, round windows facing the town’s Central Square or the Church of Pantokratoras with the delicate ironworks, like vines, over every window, but Charles chose Santa Paraskevi because the Reverend Father there was the only one who had said yes. The list of objections, which the Reverend Father ignored, included Charles’s faith—the Church of Ireland, same as your father’s, Elesa—may he rest in peace; Giorgio, who was asleep at home in the arms of Old Iota; and my blessed second, who unbeknownst to me was in the church with us that afternoon. Patricio, you must have been within me, because I was already craving the fruits of the sea.

That Reverend Father must be hard of hearing or blind, I had said to Charles when he told me of the arrangements. Charles replied that the only thing that the Reverend Father was afflicted with was poverty and a love for Holy Communion wine. Charles had sent over a barrel of kephaliako, a red wine that was considered Santa Maura Island’s finest because it was not watered down, then another barrel, and another, until the Reverend Father had said yes.

After an early supper—Old Iota, who cooked for us, knew to leave out the usual head of garlic from the stifado, which was heavier than usual with beef, a nuptial gift from the butcher—Charles returned to the officers’ quarters as he did every evening. The house was rented only for Giorgio and me. When my blessed one woke later that night, I fed him from the breast, and it ached. I took us into the kitchen, and there I saw the two myrtle crowns, the edges of their green leaves beginning to curl. I placed them both on my head. “I am wedded to myself,” I said aloud. My voice startled me. My thought startled me more. I had never heard anyone say this before, but it sounded true to me. For the second time that day, I smiled.

Giorgio had fallen back to sleep, his lips still around the nipple but slacken, as if at the end of a kiss. The ache remained, and that should have meant that my days of blooming roses would soon be upon me again. But it was not to be because, Patricio, you were to be.

“Blooming roses” was a phrase of Old Iota’s. I laughed when I first heard her whisper it. One husband, five sons—may her babies all rest in peace—and she still spoke as if she were a virgin.