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Another Road Home
It was when he said expansively There is no such thing as the truth that his thick thumbs thickened and his lips, purple as grapes, further purpled. When I also spun such spinning facilities as these, my own vines ripened with what I hoped might prove more promising fruit. Yios mou, set the large man’s handsome books aside and sit with me on the airy balcony beside our kind and loving Father Iakovos. Truth may prove to be no such a thing as matter for our mulling; still, this evening spread out before our mountain, above our mountain tea suggests in its late, cypress-scented air a pressing density, a wine-like, whelming cup, ksinómavro—deep and dark, substantial. And the road? Meandering, manifestly inconclusive, and for that reason not so likely to ferment blithe disregard.