Look for me in the olive hills (Greece)

 Andrea Tchesnovsky, ‘25

You look the same, really. 

I see you once a year, 

Twice if I’m lucky, 

but you’re good to me, 

you don’t change. 

You’re never the destination, 

Always on the way, 

I wish I could stay. 

Your soil is lighter than the one I’m used to seeing every day,

Somewhere between gold and terracotta, 

The sand still between my toes even as I go miles away. 

I learn in class that you live for thousands of years.

I’ve marveled at you for twenty, 

but you exist for nine hundred and eighty more,

feel a million more feet on your hills. 

For you a year is nothing. 

I find ways to stay close to you, 

Olives and white wine before dinner, 

the moisturizing lip balm I put on my lips, on my tattoo,

the one that says “eternal” in a language you can understand. 

The Turkish store in New Jersey— 

they have olive shampoo and conditioner. 

My dad comes back with big white plastic bags, filled with products from your groves. 

The bus weaves on tiny roads on the edge of the mountain, and you’re right there, 

vast and green and gold, 

an ancient thing, 

Eternal. 

You’ll always be there,

and even when I’m not,

I’ll always be there too.