She always wore only green. Her unique green dress, which she left hanging on a nail on the wall when the priests came decorated to take her from our home in an oak coffin full of asphodels and anemones, lifeless like a tree that suddenly withered. Green was also the long peleryna, which she wore every winter without ever wearing it out, and it gave a formal, almost royal, severity to her slender figure. Green was her shawl like a hyacinth, with the greenest birds surrounding its garland. Thus, when I began as a small child to distinguish colors and before I knew the trees and grass, my eyes had already been flooded by the fertile, peaceful, and eternal color of creation. Like a flourishing, multifaceted hope, her stature moved back and forth within our poor yet proud home. And if the whole world did not call her Chryso, for that is how she was baptized, they should have called her spring, flowerpot, garden, or something like that.