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Sometimes, we fed each other with little details we had learned.ĭid you know that there’s a rhyme British kids learn at school to help them remember the fate of each wife? Divorced, beheaded, died divorced beheaded, survived.ĭid you know that Catherine Howard asked for the executioner’s block to be brought to her prison chamber in the Tower of London one night before her beheading, so she could practice how to place herself on it the next day?ĭid you know that in later years, the ulcers in Henry VIII’s legs were kept open and weeping and, as a result, emitted a vile smell, which led his servants to perfume his chambers and flood it with flowers to cover the scent? We’d trade books we enjoyed reading and discussed them at length. My father and I loved to read historical fiction and non-fiction revolving around King Henry VIII, his six wives, and the politics, power and intrigue at his infamous court. Of course, my father had not turned his back on me voluntarily. From this day on, I was a daughter without a father, like Circe. In the midst of my remaining family and other mourners, I was entirely alone. A bookmark is nestled in between the pages 428 and 429. It’s a thick book, a Christmas present from my mother, the final installment in Mantel’s trilogy about the rise and fall of Thomas Cromwell. I stare at it sometimes and feel like it’s staring back at me. To this day, it still sits on the little side table next to the orange armchair in the living room, where he used to spend his afternoons and evenings. The last book my father read before being hospitalized was “The Mirror And The Light” by Hilary Mantel. I watched the urn containing my father’s ashes vanishing in a hole in the ground. I had not been banished, but I understood Circe’s terror of being abandoned by the one who should love her the most. As soon as Circe’s feet touch the ground, he turns around and leaves her, without so much as one last glance. It is Helios himself who takes her to the deserted island in his golden chariot. Because of her dark powers – witchcraft – the Olympian gods, Zeus in particular, feel threatened and decide to banish her. I recently read a book about Circe, the daughter of sun god Helios. It’s a goddamn tragedy, and I’d rather have heavy clouds, rainfall or a raging thunderstorm accompany me.
How dare you show your face today, the day we are burying my father? This is not a bright and beaming affair. But as I was standing at my father’s grave, arms linked with my mother and sister, exposed in bright sunlight and without any trees nearby to offer shade, I cursed the sun. During April and May, there had only been hints of what could be, false promises of sun-kissed days and glorious, lingering summer nights. For the longest time, I had been yearning for summer.