The Primaroli ship weighed anchor last year blessed with good wishes for Godspeed. Its engine is a makina (sorting machine for Corinthian currants), its taffrail made of tzivieres (trays for drying Corinthian currants). Its precious cargo, nothing less than our being, and our eagerness. So what if the winds of 2020 blew us whichever way? The ship weathered the storms, with an iodine scent and the taste of salt lingering. The waterline became a lifeline – its ropes a tangle. Its chain locker now empty and the anchor, a much-regretted tattoo. A sea of memories, a sky of images and the strong eastern wind pushing towards Hesperia. Wherever it docks, the port feels like it’s ours; familiar; already explored.
Onwards we sail.
On deck someone narrates a story about the Corinthian currant, rekindling collective memories; deep in the hold a pair rummages through a chest, looking for documents and music notes; others at the front of the bow stand watch, seeing images and visions of this endless journey’s identity.
Somebody else eats Corinthian currants, it’s been two centuries already.
Nobody asks where to.
The route is inscribed in our souls.
May the winds favour our sails once again.
