As I wipe the chalky remains of our latest ghost world from the blackboard after class, one stubborn figure lingers in the dense fog of faded citations. The tale of his return from the underworld, and what he left behind in death’s dark doorway, will be familiar to many readers already.
Even those who know the story by heart may occasionally wonder what possesses this fellow to turn around in the end. Surely his wife can be trusted to take care of herself, I silently profess, switching off lights in the empty classroom. In the gloom my shadow blurs, a dark stain seeping into the floorboards that never entirely disappears.
Maybe Orpheus looks back not to see if she is following, it dawns on me, but rather to gaze on the spectral realm they will return to someday. It must have been an entrancing view—pyramids, pagodas, a solar boat raising its oars on the river at dusk—and only natural, on taking one’s leave, to feel some measure of nostalgia.