He held my small hand in his on long walks to the beach. He picked me up and put me on his shoulders. He laughed from his gut. He stayed up late at night and watched old Melina Mercouri movies on the television while telling me in Greek about the plot lines. He and I would have full conversations even though we couldn’t understand a single word the other said. Sometimes, we would just sit outside together and nothing would be said—which was ok. He always smelled like sweat and hard work with a faint trace of cologne. He was never without his pack of cigarettes. He sometimes fell asleep holding a cigarette in the same elegant position as when he was awake. He could kill flies with a single loud clap. He taught me how to dance like a Greek and encouraged me when I felt silly doing so. He loved me when I was a little girl, an awkward teen, and a grown woman. He could remember funny things I said when I was a small child. He gave me my first shot of alcohol and called it medicine. He always had loud music drifting up from his store. He used to pay my younger brother to sweep the store with some spare change and a laugh. His grandchildren adored him, his wife loved him, his children respected him. He fiercely loved everyone and berated those who spoke poorly of others.

He lived life like it should be lived—fully and with family. He wasn’t a rich man, but led a rich life. He left much too soon and my heart hurts thinking about him. My Theo Andreas was amazing and was the epitome of a distinguished Greek gentleman. It was a complete shock to hear that this man that helped shape who I am today is suddenly gone without warning. I loved him. I know that he knew this, but it doesn’t make the pain subside.