Tea and biscuits

Your older brother lost his eye
in the war,
the right side of his face
permanently disfigured.
He moved to Paris
and made music out of maths.
His face, the good side,
as it appeared on album covers,
was hard.
Your younger brother chose to end his life
with a cocktail of alcohol and drugs,
before that became fashionable.
You stayed,
and learned to make the most
of living in their shadow.
In the arty circles of Athens,
you were known as the eccentric painter
with the beautiful wife.
To me
you were the soft-spoken man
who kept the rainbow in his back pocket.
Kosmas (in greek: the world),
my world was small enough
to be filled by only you.

When I was five
I realised I was the only one
who was allowed in your studio.
My mum would wait outside,
her mum would make the tea
and complain.
"Your father, she would say,
with the tenderness she saved for you,
he drives me mad."
But with a smile.

I'd say no to tea and biscuits
and watch for hours
as you cleaned brushes
and mixed paints
and made colours I didn't have names for.
On big sheets of rough, beige paper
I'd copy your paintings
and you would give me pictures
that made no sense.
Men wearing ships instead of hats
and using feathers as swords,
and on the bottom of each you'd write
To Daphne Kapsali,
-not my granddaughter, not my little girl-

and sigh and date them
as if
you took it very seriously.

I was going to be a painter,
like you,
but I'm my fathers' daughter
and I write.
Sometimes
I get my paints out
and use my brushes to capture the rainbow,
like you did,
but I guess you took it with you.
I'd like to think
you know I tried
and that you'd refuse tea and biscuits
to sit with me
in the quiet,
while I try to come up with the words
to tell my stories
and the names for all the colours
that you left me.