In a dingy room in a dreary Athens suburb of Nea Philadelphia last week, sat an aged woman, her chin bent low over her hollow chest, her hair in untidy wisps around her wrinkled face, her sharp black eyes lost in memory. She had no need to be dressed for company, for hardly anybody drops in to pay a call on Mamma Erato these days. They are too afraid. Her only friends are the rheumatic old cobbler just down the street and the kind, ugly butcher next door. Sometimes Mamma Erato slinks out of her room to make her...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
