The class wasn't about grammar. It was about learning to name the wind again. About realizing that the same stars that watched Sappho watch us stumble over participles.
La clase de griego wasn't a class. It was a small boat. And every week, we sailed a little further from the shore of forgetting. La clase de griego
The classroom smelled of old paper, dust, and something else—something like thyme and sea salt, though we were a thousand miles from the Aegean. Every Tuesday at seven, we sat in a semicircle, a group of strangers chasing ghosts. Not the ghosts of Homer or Plato, but our own. We came to learn ancient Greek, but what we really wanted was to decipher the fragments of our own lives. The class wasn't about grammar
And that, perhaps, was the whole point.