No comet blazed across the horizon proclaiming the birth of Dionysus’ son. No earthquakes shook the ground or thunderbolts rattled the heavens. My son was not born to tear down mountains or battle giants. I never had to look on his small, sleeping face and see a mighty destiny looming in his tiny, furrowed brow while he slept, milk-drunk and dazed, against my skin. When his body startled awake, limbs flung out like a starfish in his surprise to be out of the close cradle of the womb, I never saw the shadows of a great future gather around to enfold him in their heavy darkness. His infant fists
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