A Lesson in Practicality
By Zoe Zarubin
“My dearest mother! It’s been awhile since I saw you last.”
“Oh my dearest Dione! Tell me, dear, why have you come to the shores of the Styx in such a hurry? Why, when I passed, you were with child!”
“Mother, in the few years you’ve been gone, I’ve aged thousands. Let me tell you why; let me tell you of my last day in the land of the living.”
The anguish written across her face flooded me with compassion. I sat her down on a rock, folding her fingers over my own.
I paused, staring at the sea ahead of me—bleak, bottomless, and breathtaking in its scope. My memories filtered through my mind in a similar fashion; they, too, had no happy ending. The words caught in a notch in my throat; was it truly a story worth telling? A story better left in the depths of a bottomless abyss? Then her hand squeezed mine, warmth streamed through her fingertips into my own, and the story spilled out.
***
It was the day of the Panathenaic festival, in the fourth year of the 83rd Olympiad.¹ I awoke that morning before the sun rose. My husband, Phaidros, was away trading in Corinth. His absence never used to matter to me. But after last year, something shifted. Perikles was a man that was hailed as a democratic reformer. He funded public works, empowered the popular assembly, and gave people compensation for their civic service. However, for me, he will forever be an object of loathing because of one fateful verdict—that both parents must be citizens of Athens in order for the child to qualify as one.
Although Father was Athenian-born, you were from Thessali. Under the old law, I was a citizen, but afterwards, I became a Metic—a “resident foreigner” within the Athenian social hierarchy. I always felt like an outcast; you remember the days I would come into your room crying because the children I played with called me a “Thessalian witch.” But you would comfort me, caress my head, tell me I belonged.
Now that’s no more. Gone was my bodily inviolability, my protections. Phaidros was always away, and even then I could never talk to him about anything that mattered to me, not really. In his place was his brother, Aristeides. I never liked Aristeides, namely because he always had his way. And, after that law…well, he had his way with me.
“Come here, Dione. Oh, Dione!” my mother interjects, but I quiet her.
Yes, well, on the morning of the Panathenaic festival, I awoke, Aristeides at my side. Melonie, my daughter, doesn’t know. I’ve tried to keep that from her. Every morning since, Aristeides has forced me to sleep by his side, I’ve awoken earlier and earlier to find respite from him.
Now on this particular morning, I awoke with a certain resolve nestled deep in my bosom. I was suddenly invigorated. Almost joyous. I hadn’t felt that way in a while.
I made my way into the entryway, running into Phaidros’ slave, Penelope. A look of shock came across her face as I took my hands in hers, begging her to grant me a request before the procession. Tears in her eyes, she nodded.
I went to my daughter Melonie’s room, kneeling beside her to wake her. As I did so, a hand clenched my shoulder and a gravelly voice tickled my ear:
"Good morning, Dione."
I flinched as my daughter’s soft and eager eyes opened, and I was suddenly flooded with shame. Why should she see me like this, so helpless under Aristeides’ gaze?
Her dewdrop eyes bored into mine, but as they shifted over to Aristeides at my right shoulder, they dulled ever so slightly. “Hello, uncle,” she chirped.
“Hello, Melonie,” he said absentmindedly, his breath still on the nape of my neck.
"Melonie," I said, trying to shake Aristeides off, "It’s a special day—do you know what it is?"
"What?"
"The Panathenaic festival, dear! And…" I said, dramatically holding up a small purple robe to go over her tunic, "I’m going to take you as well!"
"Really?"
"Really."
Getting ready passed by in a frenzy, and soon, we were at the Dipylon Gate, the grand “entrance” to Athens, beginning the procession up the Panathenaic Way, which led from Athens to the Acropolis. The sun crept over the horizon as we strode forward, pressed on all sides by other resident foreigners—other Metics—dressed in purple robes that they only wore once a year.
It was the first of an eight day festival, with the procession in the early morning. Normally, Metics weren’t permitted to attend festivals such as these, but today, all free residents were allowed in the procession—including us.
It was a brief moment of respite from Aristeides, a moment of freedom with my daughter. With one hand, I gripped hers, leading her forward. With the other, I held a small empty cup concealed in the folds of my robe, gifted to me from a tearful Penelope as we prepared to leave for the procession.
This time two years ago, we as citizens were allowed through the entrance to the Acropolis—the propylaea. We’re no longer allowed. But you wouldn’t think it from the looks of the Metics surrounding us. Their steps were light, their knees bounced. It was subtle, but it was there. They wore pristine purple robes—robes they only wore once a year, robes they prepared for one special moment of significance in a religious festival.
I wanted to give my daughter a moment of joy—something to remember me by. Even now, I remember the burning sensations from the hemlock Penelope had given me creeping into my throat, my hands shaking in hers.
As the Metics dispersed, I let go of Melonie’s hand.
“Mitéra?” she asked wonderingly. Mama?
“I love you, Melonie. Survive me and…learn to live.” I planted a kiss on her forehead, saliva spilling out of my lips involuntarily.
“Mitéra?” she asked again, but my back had already turned to her. I began to stumble into a cluster of trees near the Acropolis, away from the crowds, away from Melonie, away from Aristeides.
I did not want my last moments of life to be tainted by his heartless hands.
Before I knew it, bile began to creep into my throat—I began to vomit incessantly —the sunny world above me blurred—a child’s voice cried “Mitéra!” over and over—my mind closed to the world…and Hades took me for his own.
***
“Now, here, in the lonely throes of the dead, I am at last free. I am with you.”
My mother’s fingers had become white from gripping mine so tightly, but I couldn’t feel it. We were dead, sitting on a stone beside the Styx. Nevertheless, she soon stopped clenching so aggressively and then we sat in silence for a long time. There was an understanding in death.
We watched the Styx flow, the water lapping lazily against Charon’s skiff as he shuttled the dead into Hades. A low, lonely murmur of thousands of souls rose up from the shore, permeating the air above us.
There was perspective here in the realm of the dead—clarity and community and sadness all trundled into a gray, quiet river.
When I spoke again, the words spilled out slower, heavier, with greater intention.
“I hope, beyond reason, that Melonie does not think me selfish or shameful after my passing. I hope she will use another word:
Practical.”
¹Around the year 449 BCE.