Paula Wall
I was sitting at a small seaside cafe in Mykonos. The wind was hot and dry. The sun so blinding bright I felt stoned. I was gazing at the old windmills in the distance slowly turning round and round, much like my life, when I sensed the child. Black hair. Crystal blue eyes. Sandy feet. Turkish, I thought.
"Allie diyor, eve git," he said.
His mother called. He ran to her and took her hand. He did not look back as they walked down the beach.
"What did he say?" I asked the waiter.
The waiter dismissed it with a shrug. "Allie says, go home."
Of course, we heard wrong. The child said "Allah" not "Allie."
My grandmother Allie had been dead for years.
"Allie diyor, eve git," he said.
His mother called. He ran to her and took her hand. He did not look back as they walked down the beach.
"What did he say?" I asked the waiter.
The waiter dismissed it with a shrug. "Allie says, go home."
Of course, we heard wrong. The child said "Allah" not "Allie."
My grandmother Allie had been dead for years.
More Answered Questions
About Goodreads Q&A
Ask and answer questions about books!
You can pose questions to the Goodreads community with Reader Q&A, or ask your favorite author a question with Ask the Author.
See Featured Authors Answering Questions
Learn more