Chrisoula, a friendly pensioner with a sun-tanned face, sits on her veranda, looking out over a yard that was once a sea of colors. “Here I had sunflowers, and there, the little orange ones,” she says, pointing to empty patches now covered in dried mud. Now, the only splash of brightness comes from a small bouquet of yellow daffodils placed in a water bottle with the top cut off. Her hands rest on a floral tablecloth she picked out especially for this spot.
When the rain came, it started gently but quickly turned relentless. Her daughter had called just in time: “You need to get to safety!” She fled with other villagers to a house on higher ground. From there, they could hear cries for help from two women. The water rose too fast; no help came. Just as it seemed the floodwaters might reach them too, a nearby dam broke. The rushing water carved a new path, surging away in another direction and sparing their refuge.
When the flood finally receded, she returned to find her home unrecognizable. The garden was buried in mud, her chickens drowned, and inside, everything was soaked and broken. Family and neighbors came to help her rebuild. They planted new seeds, cleaned the floors, and remodeled the kitchen.
Moving away was never an option for her. “This is my home,” she said. Now, she adjusts the heavy flower heads of the daffodils in their makeshift vase, watching the slow return of life to her garden. “The flowers remind me of my old life,” she says, her gaze resting on the bright yellow blooms.