I was here twenty-six years ago. I promised
myself that I would return, and here I am.
Nothing has changed and everything is different.
Right now I’m wondering about that cross.
The same wood as twenty-six years ago—
Or no? Personally, it looks just the same.
I’ll stick with that. You still have the view,
I’ll give you that much: location, location,
location, especially in death—especially then.
I brought a wife this time. That’s right, despite
Zorba—the whole catastrophe, etc. She was
insistent. Had to see your grave. She’s a big
fan, you see. And—glory be to all the dead gods—
she’s fallen in love with Crete! Before we leave,
I’ll have to take another photo of your epitaph.
For years I kept a framed photo of it on my desk:
‘I hope for nothing; I fear nothing; I am free.’
Easy for you to say, as they say, but no less true.
I tried, certainly, but the world has a way of poking
its global nose into life… but let’s not go there.
No, here’s the truth: This isn’t really a prayer.
Praying is for the insane. This is better. It’s advice.
Lie still, old man. Stay quiet. It isn’t safe yet.
There’s still too much madness everywhere.