Yesterday, Cercolas and I spent the day in an olive grove where men were knocking olives off the trees...we walked far.
That is all I wrote and yet that was one of the most joyous days. What kept me from describing our happiness? Was I too close to it? Or was the next day one of those hurried days and I thought I would write about our day later on? Later?
A year later Cercolas was dead at war.
And what made those hours precious? It was our accord, the day itself and everything we saw and did. I realize this now. His arms were around me, or mine curled about his waist. His mouth went to mine, many times. Mine to his. I wish I could remember what we said but I remember his smiles and I remember his coarse brown Andrian robe and I remember how we looked at this and that, making each thing ours.
Cercolas...your name is euphonious...your fingers reach out of death...I glimpse your smile.
But is this all that remains when we are gone?
Is this the answer?
P
I have often relived the experience of giving birth. Had Cercolas lived, there would have been other children. Kleis was born on a summer’s day, the ocean lapping after a windy night, a dragonfly in my room, clicking its wings over my bed. Mama saw it and murmured:
“There...see it above you. Now, I know you’ll have a girl!”