No Worries

Everywhere you go in Greece, you find men carrying worry beads. These strings of about ten beads, usually wooden, sometimes metal, are occasionally stowed away in pockets, but are usually clutched tightly in the hand. The plump, agile fingers of men close in age to me, and the gnarled, arthritic fingers of men whose lives have spanned almost a century find a similar solace in these beads. These men rub the beads between their thumb and forefinger, they let the whole string of beads slid through their hands like water, they flip the beads quickly and expertly. I don’t know if they actually use the beads for their worries, or if they simply like the repetition and routine. Whatever the reason for their widespread popularity, I like them. I like watching men drink coffee in a café, unconsciously working their worries out with their fingers, the way babies do with blankets. I like watching old men, dressed in suits that have grown too big for their stooped bodies, walking with the beads hanging from their hands as if they are an extension of themselves. And, most of all, I like the way they remind me of my grandma rhythmically working a rosary through her hands.