Why I liked hearing Don Wynn

"Categorized as realism", but of what?  I saw in Zeus a whole life.

The myth transposed to a small man wearing nothing new, who carried a riffle and pointed his gaze past my left shoulder, down the mountain.  Derived from memory, Don Wynn gave Cedric a whole lifetime of playing in the woods.  From the way he held his gun, he had been out on that land before with his dad and uncle, watching closely the way those men listened to snow fall and pretending not to cry after they killed a doe.

His shirt had been sewn many times by his wife, patched at the elbows.  And he'd been in so many snow storms that wearing a coat in the winter sun seemed ludicrous.  When he went for drinks in the evenings, he'd look at women much younger than his own and think: what can I do to make them want me?

And now years after he hid tears in shame, he welcomes the power cocked in his finger when placed on the trigger of a gun, when placed on the small wrist of the bartender.  A man.  He can possess what lays in his site.  He has the tools for such endeavors.  And yet, it's still his wife who sews his shirts, who strokes the nape of his neck in the morning to wake him, and at the small remembrance of that doe that first day, the one who brings him to tears.

This is what myth does; it colors you.