Sometimes my parents would drop my sister and I off for the weekends at Yiayia and Poppy's apartment. They live in a three-bedroom apartment on the 9th floor of the Cornwall at the corner of Broadway and West 90th St. 

Visiting always makes me feel like Eloise, especially as a little girl. The building has a friendly doorman and a marble lobby complete with armchairs, fresh flowers and mirrors. The elevator is made of dark wood and has a pleasant mechanical smell. The tiles on the 9th floor make each heel strike sound like ringing crystal. 

The apartment glows with warm vibrations. The ceilings are tall, and the walls are painted pale shades of pink and blue. Lacey curtains veil the tall living room windows, which face 90th St. Every surface is soft to the touch, from the varnished wood of the piano to the cold marble of the mantle. 

The walls are decorated with hanging paintings. A portrait of Yiayia hangs above the piano, next to the front door. She is young, perhaps 30 in the painting. She has her signature curly brown updo and a set of lashes on. Family legend says she gave birth to all three children with false lashes on. She wears a low-cut red dress and sits relaxed on a couch, inviting you into her home. 

The TV used to live inside a mahogany cupboard in the dark dining room. The only thing I remember watching on that TV was The Red Balloon on VHS. As television models evolved, this set was discarded in favor of a thinner and wider model which was set up in my aunt Persephone's childhood bedroom. Here my sister and I would indulge, getting our fill of Disney and Nickelodeon as our parents refused to pay for cable at our house. In the last few months of his life, the whole family came together to watch Poppy's favorite team, the Giants win the Super Bowl on the TV in this room. This is the room Poppy passed away in. When he died, 9 buttercups were tucked into the breast pocket of his striped flannel pajamas—one for each of us, his surviving kin. 

When we were very young my sister and I would share my Aunt's childhood bedroom. The walls are covered in pink peony wallpaper and the window faces the Hudson. The pane sits loosely in its old frame. When the wind blows, the window rattles and whistles. 

Up the hall is my uncle Alexander's bedroom. His room now doubles as a study which to this day has a 2004 model iMac sitting at the desk facing the window. The walls are dark green and so is the carpet (I think?). The shelves are stacked with trophies of various athletic achievements and there is a framed photo of Mohammed Ali on the dresser. As I grew older and Margaret and I began sleeping in different bedrooms, I would spend some nights in this room. One particular night I had a dream I was being pursued by a bee. As I woke up I found my eyes fixed on my pursuer which was not a bee but the ceiling light I had left on. 

Before I would go to bed, Yiayia would tuck me in and draw a cross on my pillow with her fingers. She would recite a prayer in Greek. I felt so protected by this, as if my grandmother had a direct line to God. Then she would sing to me.

Sometimes she would sing me a song that went like this:

Quitchya quitchya quitchya fooling around
making those eyes at those men
It ain't, it ain't, it ain't a bit ladylike
And I don't wanna see you do it again

Ain't you got one bit of decent respect?
Makin those wrinkles in the back of your neck

you've got devilish eyes
doggone those eyes
something something tramp

Once or twice Yiayia tried to teach me to sing. One morning in particular, she made me sit next to her at the piano and learn the words to Edelweiss. 

Edelweiss, Edelweiss,
Ev'ry morning you greet me. 

Small and white,
Clean and bright,
You look happy to meet me.

Blossom of snow,
may you bloom and grow,
Bloom and grow forever.