I watch you, bent over your book in the corner of the local library reading room. I wonder what you're reading: your face is screwed with frustration your mouth set - ah... there you go your face eases back to the serene look I am used to and your eyes seem to flick toward me as if sensing my ever-watching gaze - but you just turn the page and continue your reading. I duck behind the nearest shelf - Ancient Greek Mythology - and think at how you resemble a Greek god. If I could have named you I would have called you Dionysus - I, your maenad, follow you. It is said that Dionysus was driven mad by his education and you, driven mad by your passion for it. Dionysus, god of wine and art, the sufferer, died in winter and rose again, his resurrection celebrated at the theater. He was the tragic god. You spend each winter holed in your room, reading and playing Pac-Man and stealing drinks of wine from your mother's liquer cabinet, awaking again when the sun peaks through the shutters and the snow melts. Then, you take back the long-overdue stack of books to the library, and spend most days there hunched over them as I peer around the shelves and watch you. |