The professor’s mood seemed to mirror my own. Which in turn was reflected by the gray clouds that obscured the peak of Mt. Epomeo. Spring, despite the calendar, had not yet fully arrived on the island.
We stood on his balcony, and looked out at the gloomy, flat sea. Harold spoke in a quiet voice. “Once in New York a friend of mine and I came across a man sleeping over a grate, and I nodded toward the poor wretch and said, ‘That’s my dad.’ My friend laughed, as I expected he would.”
“What did you mean by it?” I asked.
“I meant cutting irony, of course. That’s how I deal with things I haven’t yet resolved. I’ve still got profound anger toward my father that I’m not quite ready to let go of.”
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