Comments about Costas Nisiotis
My father died on a wintry Sunday afternoon.
Moments before, his hair became black and curly
his eyes bright green. On his left wrist appeared
the watch with the gold bracelet.
He glanced at it and sprang out of bed.
A white shirt hung by the bedside.
He tucked it into black trousers.
Not the black suit again? I protested.
That’s the suit I got married in.