The Post -II

D —

The season’s just as a kyklo, on the wide surface of the face of the sea ripple outward, rolling patiently — gyrating on the echoes of the void that has occupied the hours. The hours on the calendar that mark off each day with a memory, thoughts that roll back, torturing the day’s of my past, as I struggle to stay them there in the past-tense — I gimp towards the unknown future.

The season’s have rolled, they do not wait for you or I, they understand their nature always moving forward, through the portals of time, reborn again anew, without a wrinkle, it is us who crinkle the season’s with our actions and words. Pressing creases onto the days of our lives that delineate the course we each choose to call our own.

The leaves flutter aimlessly, falling to the ground, they turn this way and that, as though dancing to the rhythm of my tapping pen, I turn a new leaf. I fiddle with the edges of the page I write upon. I stare out my window as I sit at my desk, the same spot I sat this time last year, the same view, as the same thoughts tremble upon the periphery that border my sanity.

The light from my lamp dimmed shadow the words I want to write to you as my conscience chases them across the page, they flutter and fall off the edge of my reason, as I whisper into the burgeoning silence your name, they hit the ground and scatter, they lay there, they lay there, disordered and accusitory.

Letter’s dance above my head, like sugarplums, sweet to my taste but to my pen bitter and of another mind they slash the sheet I write on with a bold calligraphic scrawl, the swirls and curves falsely complimenting the tempest churning in the pit of my stomach— the teacup about to shatter into millions of cutting projectiles. A false confession of what I’m feeling — listless.

Can I breathe some life onto the pregnant silence of this page, with the hope that I carry, it dwindles with the rise of each day passing — that you will receive my epistle and write back soon.

It’s the same hope everyday, it awakes refreshed only to fall into bed exhausted — only the flavours change, just as I see the changes that ravage my mind.

I do not run to the postman any longer, with wings on my feet, the wind behind me, my dress hitched tightly in my fists, as I did once upon a time with expectation. I have changed my pace accordingly, it is a solemn contemplative walk now, as befits my place amongst my peers, every step a step taking me closer to what was expected of me, my purpose.

I will not go into full review with the happenings here in the village. The olive harvest was plentiful again this year although we had to wait for the first rains, we had a late start to begin the picking. I oversaw your families gathering and pressing. Ha!, I still beat you by a thousand kilos.

I came up with an idea that everyone here argued against but I believed it was beneficial to us as a community and so I ignored their advice.

As you know many of our villagers are away from home during this season and do not return to have their olives harvested. I’ve watched many a seasons harvest go to waste. I began calling our villagers in the States, Germany and the diaspora with a proposition. That they would grant me permission to have their groves picked, no expense to them, it is to their benefit and it helps to maintain the health of the trees. Everyone I reached out to agreed, except the small of mind here, the ones I had to slap into line. Sedentary, minds always search for reasons to remain stagnant, if only they put their thoughts and wasted energy towards the betterment of all, then they’d break free from the chains that binds them to the folds of a lazy man’s load.

I then traveled to Athens, where I haggled and purchased the vessels for the oil to be stored in, not the stainless steal sort, they don’t hold up well with our humidity but the good old fashioned earthen ones. I had them shipped home. Oh, I also found a baby kitten crying and abandoned on the streets, which I bought home with me, I know what you’re thinking but I couldn’t walk away from him.

That done, when I returned home I began the process, thus far my idea has far exceeded my expectations. The benefits far outweigh the aches and pains I suffer — I have no personal gain from this endeavor, I could have sat on my royal mmm, mmm, well its neither here nor there now is it love.

The oil will be sold and the proceeds will go into the accounts of the Demos. There is so much we can do here with those monies. It really would have been a shame for the harvest to go to waste. As you know I do not like the colour of regret, it does not enhance my complexion, hmmm, after the fact regret would be baseless, therefore I ran with the idea…

Your Great Uncle has passed away but I will speak no further on this subject as I still have not processed how I feel about this matter. I will say this, I hope there is no place for him neither in heaven or hell, may his soul wander aimlessly never to know the warmth of home again, may the earth that received him, spit him out, revoking his reservation. If I am wrong in feeling this way, may I be judged accordingly, I will except my due.

Speaking of home, have you forgotten yours, chosen to exile yourself from all who know and love you, how could you, how could you, how! Do you feel you have a monopoly on pain and hurt? You shouldn’t you’ve caused your fair share of it. I am sure as sure as the sun will rise, I’ve never caused you harm.

Your mother, whom I see daily, is still breathing — just. Please do not worry your busy mind about such trivial matters of family, I am her family now.

The postmaster has arrived, I hear his horn tooting from the bend of the Stavro and I really should walk to the village and post this letter but I see no reason to rush.

My pace has adapted to yours slow and unresponsive, I’ll wait to post this letter tomorrow or on second thought maybe not at all.

The season’s endless, have turned once again, how quickly time passes, it seems like yesterday yet so, so far away. How differently I think today, then I did this time last year. As my mother would say, “I blinked and by the time I un-blinked, the blush of youth had faded”.

I’m growing up, was I ever a child, I ponder? The excitement and passion to achieve is still within me. No matter the changes I see in myself, I will always feel the same for you, steadfast — unto my last breath. The blush of my youth has remained with you.

Curious, don’t you think?, It seems I’ve spoken more about the season’s than anything else, they at least have the courtesy of arriving as promised.

I hope my letter, If I choose to send it, finds you in good health, which is my fevered hope, I greet you with the warmth of a kiss on each cheek.

Yours in this life — and the next.

R — —

Copyright. R Tsambounieri Talarantas. Dec 2, 2018. All Rights Reserved.