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Description
Sing to me, Muse, of the man whom I have yet to know:
A man of bravery and cunning, a man lost to time,
A husband who gave his wife nothing but woe,
And a father I have never been able to call mine-

…Aw, forget it; it's no use. If there's one thing I've learned during my twenty years on this earth, it's that the gods are nothing more than bedtime stories told to children, so they can sleep tight and not worry. But I'm old enough to know the truth: that there isn't anyone watching out for you except yourself.

I mean, I of all people should know. I, Telemachus Alepou the lonely, used to pray to all the gods I could think of for my father's safe and timely return, and yet he is still lost, never to be heard from again. Even in this age of technological advancement, with cell phones, the Internet, and all this stuff, we haven't heard from him in years. I think it's time to throw in the towel-after all, he was legally pronounced dead in absentia almost thirteen years ago-but my mother, the stubborn and loyal Penelope, refuses to accept the fact that my father, the great and revered Odysseus Alepou, might actually be gone forever. Of course, she fails to realize that him being alive means that he purposefully ditched us for some hotter, younger chick and a better son or something, but that's my mother for you-highly illogical but stubborn.

You see, my father left our home here in Ithaca, New York, many years ago to go fight in a war with another city in the state, Troy. The war ended about ten years ago, and many of the still-living warriors have returned since then, but my father wasn't among them. And he hasn't returned our calls or e-mails since his departure, so we haven't really had much luck in finding out what happened to him. All of those who returned said that he was in fine health and eager to get home, last they saw him, but I can't help but think that they're just trying to spare our feelings; if that were true, he'd have been home by now. In all honesty, by car, Ithaca isn't all that far away from Troy; certainly nowhere near long enough to take ten years…plus, roadmaps really aren't that complicated, seriously, and if they really needed it, there's the GPS.

But whenever I try to explain all this to my stubborn mother, she just insists that my father must've gotten lost, that he hasn't been able to contact us for various reasons and will be here any minute now. I wish I could get her to see reason; each day my father is gone, she withers a little more, no longer the brilliant, vibrant young woman she once was. To make matters worse, a number of local men, having heard about my father's misfortune, have taken it upon themselves to assuage my mother's grief-namely, by marrying her. Of course, the immense wealth they would marry into isn't the motivation behind their goals; that would imply that they were selfish, money-grubbing fools, and I would never want to imply that.

Not only does my mother lack the self-confidence and energy to tell them off, even as they pester us mercilessly, but their presence prevents me from just going to Troy myself and seeing whether or not my father is alive. I try to be as understanding as possible about her lassitude, but at the same time it's a major hindrance. It's not that I don't trust the servants, for many of them are very loyal, but there are so many raucous men out there that I doubt they would be able to stop them. I alone can keep them at bay, as they wouldn't dare disrespect or harm me for fear of harming their chances with my mother.

I guess I'm lucky that they don't realize how she's become so distant and uncaring towards me, as if my mere presence, reminding her of my father, is too much to bear. I suppose I don't hate her for it, because I know she's been in pain, but at the same time-I'm not the one who went off and left her behind. And on that note, I'd really appreciate it if she stopped treating me like I was five-I'm nineteen years old, a grown man, and can take care of myself perfectly fine. I don't want to be ignored, but I don't need to be reined in by useless rules either-and I certainly don't need one of these gold-digging buffoons to become my step-dad and fill that "void" in my heart. Yeah, right. Like these party animals could ever be good fathers.

I mean, even now, these men are reveling in our halls, having invited themselves over for a "small little party in the lovely Penelope's honor." What they don't realize is that our wealth is slowly dwindling; without my father here to earn the big bucks, we've been doing rather poorly. My mother still has her tailoring shop, and I do odd jobs here and there, but we still can't account for the difference and wind up spending more than we earn. But they don't care; our money troubles are our own problems, and they figure that we can afford to host one party every once in a while.

Like now, I tend to stay in the corner, hoping that my icy glare and unfriendly demeanor will discourage these brutes from attempting to ingratiate themselves with me; my approval will not be given to any of these interlopers, not while they intrude on my hospitality and property. They will have to win my mother over without any brownie points befriending her son would give them, for I refuse to be a part of this madness.

One of the men, despite my efforts to come across as unapproachable, makes his way over to me, and it doesn't take me long to realize that he isn't one of the hopefuls at all. There is a solemnity in his face that makes him seem older than he truly is, the grey in his eyes making him appear wise beyond his years. But the main reason he stands out is that his mouth is closed-not open and spewing out useless drivel, not plastered with a fake smile, but closed.

The wise man looks me up and down, seemingly assessing me, before speaking. "You must be the lonely Telemachus, son of the great and revered Odysseus and his wife the loyal and lovely Penelope. And yet, with even such clever and renowned parents as your own, you remain a callow young man, having spent the majority of your life in this small area. Where is your father's blood, I ask? The need for adventure, the thirst for knowledge, where are they? For you are his spitting image, and yet you are nothing like him-as the image in the mirror, reflecting back every curve and shape of one's face, is unable to remain true to the real thing, without any real personality to match the vibrant one in its look-alike, so too do you pale in comparison to your father in this moment.

"Forgive me for being so blunt; I am Mentes, an old friend of your father's, and that is simply my way of being. But do tell me, why do you let these men act like barbarians within your own house? Any man I know with an ounce of common sense would send them packing before any permanent damage was done. This is a lovely house, and I would hate to see their selfishness and ignorance rip it apart. And don't tell me that your youth prevents you from kicking them out; that is but an excuse.

"It is high time, lonely, provincial Telemachus, that you left your small house and surroundings and saw for yourself some of the rest of New York. Visit your father's friends and acquaintances; things will be fine here, I assure you. I will personally see to it that your home stays in one piece. But trust me: this journey is necessary, if you ever want to cross over from being a narrow-minded young boy to being a strong, brave, confident young man like your father before you."

Finally finished, the old man takes a seat nearby, once again watching me intently. I sense that he's attempting to assess my reaction to his words from the expression on my face. In all honesty, though, I'm not sure what I think about his speech. He is certainly very well-spoken, unlike the bombastic fools who hope to charm my mother with their big, empty words. There is also truth in what he says; I have stayed within a very small area my whole life-which isn't surprising, as my stubborn mother already lost her husband and didn't want to lose me too-and leaving my small space would probably be good for me. But at the same time, I worry about my mother and my home, for these buffoons certainly cannot be trusted on their own.

"Good sir," I try, "wise Mentes, are you blind? How do you expect me to leave my house in such a state? Try as you might, you are but a man; certainly, they would get the better of you, for even I could not fight them off alone. Yes, I ought to see more of the world, but for now, I am chained to my home and my Ithaca. Mother would have it that way for forever, it seems, no matter how I felt about it. So I apologize for failing to fulfill my father's legacy, but you know what? He might not even be my father at all; I have no way of knowing. My mother is Penelope the faithful, but maybe even she could only take so much." The words that leave my mouth are things I've only thought; never before have I dared to share them with anyone else.

But there is a smile on the wise old man's face. "Dear boy, you shall see in time. I assure you, your father is your father. Nevertheless, you must leave, and while you are gone and visiting old family friends, you much also plot how to make these leeches leave your humble home alone. For they will not go on their own, that is certain. Visit Nestor and Menelaus, and ask them for news of your father. If they say he is alive still, lost somewhere in the network of highways that comprise our state, wait one year more for his return; if they announce him dead, mourn his death and have a funeral here on his native land. Either way, your father, great Odysseus the clever and mighty, will receive the glory he deserves."

I nod in response, taking in everything he says; there is much wisdom there. Perhaps those here could spare me for the duration of this short journey, just so I can establish whether or not my father the great and honored Odysseus still walks among the living. Mother will be cross, I'm sure, when I announce that I'm leaving, but it's about time that she realize that I am old enough to do these kinds of things. Besides, she will probably be even more eager than I for the news I bring her.

Seeing that his words have struck home in much the same way as an arrow, sailing straight and true through the open blue sky, strikes the target with the archer's precision, perfectly hitting the middle of the bull's-eye, Mentes smiles warmly. "Good. Consider my words, provincial Telemachus. But now I must be off; I'm afraid I have many more things to attend to." And as he speaks those words, he rises from his seat-and I don't quite know how to explain it, but he transformed into what looked like a bird and soared off. I think I'm the only one to see it, because nobody else seems as startled…but my soul is filled with wonder and determination, as if a kindly being had filled me up with courage as a car is filled up with gas, just before it reaches empty and peters out, but now has new life and energy. If there ever were gods, truly, that was one of them.

But now is not the time to dwell on that. As wise Mentes told me, I have a goal to focus on: finding news about my father. I know that I must use careful planning and my intelligence in order to succeed in my quest. I must also learn to become a man, no longer this ignorant child, so that I can take control of my household and make sure no man ruins it. I don't know exactly what I'll find on this journey, but I figure that it's better than not knowing anything. Nineteen years of wondering has taught me that it's always better to know the truth.

The cynic in me still argues that I won't be able to find anything of use-he's been gone so long, he might as well be dead-but this new strength within me says that it's worth trying anyway.

Even if I don't find my father on this journey, hopefully I'll still be able to find myself.

Description
Sing to me, Muse, of the man whom I have yet to know:
A man of bravery and cunning, a man lost to time,
A husband who gave his wife nothing but woe,
And a father I have never been able to call mine-

…Aw, forget it; it's no use. If there's one thing I've learned during my twenty years on this earth, it's that the gods are nothing more than bedtime stories told to children, so they can sleep tight and not worry. But I'm old enough to know the truth: that there isn't anyone watching out for you except yourself.

I mean, I of all people should know. I, Telemachus Alepou the lonely, used to pray to all the gods I could think of for my father's safe and timely return, and yet he is still lost, never to be heard from again. Even in this age of technological advancement, with cell phones, the Internet, and all this stuff, we haven't heard from him in years. I think it's time to throw in the towel-after all, he was legally pronounced dead in absentia almost thirteen years ago-but my mother, the stubborn and loyal Penelope, refuses to accept the fact that my father, the great and revered Odysseus Alepou, might actually be gone forever. Of course, she fails to realize that him being alive means that he purposefully ditched us for some hotter, younger chick and a better son or something, but that's my mother for you-highly illogical but stubborn.

You see, my father left our home here in Ithaca, New York, many years ago to go fight in a war with another city in the state, Troy. The war ended about ten years ago, and many of the still-living warriors have returned since then, but my father wasn't among them. And he hasn't returned our calls or e-mails since his departure, so we haven't really had much luck in finding out what happened to him. All of those who returned said that he was in fine health and eager to get home, last they saw him, but I can't help but think that they're just trying to spare our feelings; if that were true, he'd have been home by now. In all honesty, by car, Ithaca isn't all that far away from Troy; certainly nowhere near long enough to take ten years…plus, roadmaps really aren't that complicated, seriously, and if they really needed it, there's the GPS.

But whenever I try to explain all this to my stubborn mother, she just insists that my father must've gotten lost, that he hasn't been able to contact us for various reasons and will be here any minute now. I wish I could get her to see reason; each day my father is gone, she withers a little more, no longer the brilliant, vibrant young woman she once was. To make matters worse, a number of local men, having heard about my father's misfortune, have taken it upon themselves to assuage my mother's grief-namely, by marrying her. Of course, the immense wealth they would marry into isn't the motivation behind their goals; that would imply that they were selfish, money-grubbing fools, and I would never want to imply that.

Not only does my mother lack the self-confidence and energy to tell them off, even as they pester us mercilessly, but their presence prevents me from just going to Troy myself and seeing whether or not my father is alive. I try to be as understanding as possible about her lassitude, but at the same time it's a major hindrance. It's not that I don't trust the servants, for many of them are very loyal, but there are so many raucous men out there that I doubt they would be able to stop them. I alone can keep them at bay, as they wouldn't dare disrespect or harm me for fear of harming their chances with my mother.

I guess I'm lucky that they don't realize how she's become so distant and uncaring towards me, as if my mere presence, reminding her of my father, is too much to bear. I suppose I don't hate her for it, because I know she's been in pain, but at the same time-I'm not the one who went off and left her behind. And on that note, I'd really appreciate it if she stopped treating me like I was five-I'm nineteen years old, a grown man, and can take care of myself perfectly fine. I don't want to be ignored, but I don't need to be reined in by useless rules either-and I certainly don't need one of these gold-digging buffoons to become my step-dad and fill that "void" in my heart. Yeah, right. Like these party animals could ever be good fathers.

I mean, even now, these men are reveling in our halls, having invited themselves over for a "small little party in the lovely Penelope's honor." What they don't realize is that our wealth is slowly dwindling; without my father here to earn the big bucks, we've been doing rather poorly. My mother still has her tailoring shop, and I do odd jobs here and there, but we still can't account for the difference and wind up spending more than we earn. But they don't care; our money troubles are our own problems, and they figure that we can afford to host one party every once in a while.

Like now, I tend to stay in the corner, hoping that my icy glare and unfriendly demeanor will discourage these brutes from attempting to ingratiate themselves with me; my approval will not be given to any of these interlopers, not while they intrude on my hospitality and property. They will have to win my mother over without any brownie points befriending her son would give them, for I refuse to be a part of this madness.

One of the men, despite my efforts to come across as unapproachable, makes his way over to me, and it doesn't take me long to realize that he isn't one of the hopefuls at all. There is a solemnity in his face that makes him seem older than he truly is, the grey in his eyes making him appear wise beyond his years. But the main reason he stands out is that his mouth is closed-not open and spewing out useless drivel, not plastered with a fake smile, but closed.

The wise man looks me up and down, seemingly assessing me, before speaking. "You must be the lonely Telemachus, son of the great and revered Odysseus and his wife the loyal and lovely Penelope. And yet, with even such clever and renowned parents as your own, you remain a callow young man, having spent the majority of your life in this small area. Where is your father's blood, I ask? The need for adventure, the thirst for knowledge, where are they? For you are his spitting image, and yet you are nothing like him-as the image in the mirror, reflecting back every curve and shape of one's face, is unable to remain true to the real thing, without any real personality to match the vibrant one in its look-alike, so too do you pale in comparison to your father in this moment.

"Forgive me for being so blunt; I am Mentes, an old friend of your father's, and that is simply my way of being. But do tell me, why do you let these men act like barbarians within your own house? Any man I know with an ounce of common sense would send them packing before any permanent damage was done. This is a lovely house, and I would hate to see their selfishness and ignorance rip it apart. And don't tell me that your youth prevents you from kicking them out; that is but an excuse.

"It is high time, lonely, provincial Telemachus, that you left your small house and surroundings and saw for yourself some of the rest of New York. Visit your father's friends and acquaintances; things will be fine here, I assure you. I will personally see to it that your home stays in one piece. But trust me: this journey is necessary, if you ever want to cross over from being a narrow-minded young boy to being a strong, brave, confident young man like your father before you."

Finally finished, the old man takes a seat nearby, once again watching me intently. I sense that he's attempting to assess my reaction to his words from the expression on my face. In all honesty, though, I'm not sure what I think about his speech. He is certainly very well-spoken, unlike the bombastic fools who hope to charm my mother with their big, empty words. There is also truth in what he says; I have stayed within a very small area my whole life-which isn't surprising, as my stubborn mother already lost her husband and didn't want to lose me too-and leaving my small space would probably be good for me. But at the same time, I worry about my mother and my home, for these buffoons certainly cannot be trusted on their own.

"Good sir," I try, "wise Mentes, are you blind? How do you expect me to leave my house in such a state? Try as you might, you are but a man; certainly, they would get the better of you, for even I could not fight them off alone. Yes, I ought to see more of the world, but for now, I am chained to my home and my Ithaca. Mother would have it that way for forever, it seems, no matter how I felt about it. So I apologize for failing to fulfill my father's legacy, but you know what? He might not even be my father at all; I have no way of knowing. My mother is Penelope the faithful, but maybe even she could only take so much." The words that leave my mouth are things I've only thought; never before have I dared to share them with anyone else.

But there is a smile on the wise old man's face. "Dear boy, you shall see in time. I assure you, your father is your father. Nevertheless, you must leave, and while you are gone and visiting old family friends, you much also plot how to make these leeches leave your humble home alone. For they will not go on their own, that is certain. Visit Nestor and Menelaus, and ask them for news of your father. If they say he is alive still, lost somewhere in the network of highways that comprise our state, wait one year more for his return; if they announce him dead, mourn his death and have a funeral here on his native land. Either way, your father, great Odysseus the clever and mighty, will receive the glory he deserves."

I nod in response, taking in everything he says; there is much wisdom there. Perhaps those here could spare me for the duration of this short journey, just so I can establish whether or not my father the great and honored Odysseus still walks among the living. Mother will be cross, I'm sure, when I announce that I'm leaving, but it's about time that she realize that I am old enough to do these kinds of things. Besides, she will probably be even more eager than I for the news I bring her.

Seeing that his words have struck home in much the same way as an arrow, sailing straight and true through the open blue sky, strikes the target with the archer's precision, perfectly hitting the middle of the bull's-eye, Mentes smiles warmly. "Good. Consider my words, provincial Telemachus. But now I must be off; I'm afraid I have many more things to attend to." And as he speaks those words, he rises from his seat-and I don't quite know how to explain it, but he transformed into what looked like a bird and soared off. I think I'm the only one to see it, because nobody else seems as startled…but my soul is filled with wonder and determination, as if a kindly being had filled me up with courage as a car is filled up with gas, just before it reaches empty and peters out, but now has new life and energy. If there ever were gods, truly, that was one of them.

But now is not the time to dwell on that. As wise Mentes told me, I have a goal to focus on: finding news about my father. I know that I must use careful planning and my intelligence in order to succeed in my quest. I must also learn to become a man, no longer this ignorant child, so that I can take control of my household and make sure no man ruins it. I don't know exactly what I'll find on this journey, but I figure that it's better than not knowing anything. Nineteen years of wondering has taught me that it's always better to know the truth.

The cynic in me still argues that I won't be able to find anything of use-he's been gone so long, he might as well be dead-but this new strength within me says that it's worth trying anyway.

Even if I don't find my father on this journey, hopefully I'll still be able to find myself.