How did Ithaca unchain our hearts and floated away across the ocean? The whole lavender island vanished in the solar storm and nowhere to be found. I knew Ithaca’s loss was a cosmic event! Penelope lost, Odysseus caught on the island. We used to be one and the same. Athena’s shield failed and palladius’ stones never stroked from the sky Telemachus’ head telling him “Wake up son; it’s your time to fulfill providence.” This seems like a wrong script. What went wrong?
Eleven years past from my departure flight and today I received your first letter. This written letter on one old, as you say, recently bought typewriter, worries me. A pound of spilled, sour, and furiously swear ink on a huge page matters to me—actually every period, comma, punctuation, or exclamation mark, but I know this is not you at all. You used to rhyme every feeling with sweetest words, bounce away heavy worries, advice the city council, win the just defense war against all odds, lead with wisdom and cunningness the whole squadron not losing one young soldier, sailing them back to their mothers’ hands. Why are you still standing alone waiting between empty baskets in your wide spread lavender fields and vineyards? It is a harvest time. New verses are ought to be written while walking solemn between shadowed almond, olive, and fig trees. “Nobody” can hurt you. Finally, silence resides within, but you seem to reject this bliss.
I wish I can take your hand when you slowly stroll to the old market place where fishermen tell city tales and judge you with a cynical suspicious smile behind your back, mocking an obvious insult. I should be there to protect you against the sight where fish stare at you taking the last breath while still jumping caught in the fish-trap net. It is hard to face fish eyes when left dead to flies while the atonement bell bangs and announces to Old Town one more death of a dear friend. I received today another letter. News from Ithaca seems to come in earthquake swarms.
Distance hurts while sorrow echoes a dull pain. So, let’s toast to our old friend farewell. He was a son of Helios and Bacchus; a gifted aerial and witty spirit, always fit and swift, ready to infuriate Olympus’ rules, while at the same time shielding Ithaca from most soulless gods. Do you feel? We are sighing together on this page remembering one of our bravest.
Let us go now. I’ll be your phantom tonight walking side by side with you free and ethereal, where there are no roads or houses, where every living being is a stranger under the warm subliminal sky while flickering and swaying in gentle wavy sea hands. Walk with me to the place where one could catch millions of falling stars and afterwards fall asleep forgetting past and present in a murmur of the soothing calmness sea breath. Let’s hike over the island ridge and scary tectonic plate to come to that very place where, far back, singing sirens temptation lasted and you stayed tied so long on the proud ship mast floating with Ithaca away.