“My mother answered, ‘She stays firm. Her heart
is strong. She is still in your house. And all
her nights are passed in misery, and days
in tears. But no one has usurped your throne.
Telemachus still tends the whole estate
unharmed and feasts in style, as lords should do,
and he is always asked to council meetings.
Your father stays out in the countryside.
He will not come to town. He does not sleep
on a real bed with blankets and fresh sheets.
In winter he sleeps inside, by the fire,
just lying in the ashes with the slaves;
his clothes are rags. In summer and at harvest,
the piles of fallen leaves are beds for him.
He lies there grieving, full of sorrow, longing
for your return. His old age is not easy.
And that is why I met my fate and died.
The goddess did not shoot me in my home,
aiming with gentle arrows. Nor did sickness
suck all the strength out from my limbs, with long
and cruel wasting. No, it was missing you,
Odysseus, my sunshine; your sharp mind,
and your kind heart. That took sweet life from me.’
Then in my heart I wanted to embrace
the spirit of my mother. She was dead,
and I did not know how.”
- from Book 11 of the Odyssey, “The Dead”