Anticlea and Odysseus

Calliope: Odysseus had followed Circe's instructions, knowing she was sworn not to hurt him. He sailed to the land of the dead, sacrificed a goat and heard of his life's prophecy. I tell all this to the bard, who is enjoying the gore of the story. I often forget how young men are so often enraptured by the smallest mention of blood. I know it is his tale to sing now, but I feel some ownership over the story. He's so fast to tell of the action, and not the relationships. He often forgoes the details of Penelope's clenched knuckles or Eumaeus's hunched back for description of the sharpness of a certain sword. But the next part of my story, I won't let him alter. Perhaps it's reminding me of my mother, Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory and artistic inspiration, but the bard is going to hear the tale of Anticlea of Ithaca or he won't hear the tale at all.
Odysseus: I know my prophecy. I must sail past the cows, kill the suitors, plant my well-planed oar. 
C: Odysseus was ready to continue on, when a figure floating up from the sacrificial pool caught his eye. 
O: Mother? Mother?
Anticlea: Son? 
O: Mother. I've missed you so! Come, give me an embrace!
O: Mom?
A: (whispered) I had to.
O: Had to what?
A: There was no other choice, you have to understand
O: Mother, what did you do? 
A: I couldn't go on without you! I prayed and prayed and the prayers were finally answered. I knew you must have perished by the sea's hand, like all the prophecies said.
O: But I haven't! I haven't! Mother, I'm right here! Look at me!
A: My boy
O: No
A: You are too late
A: It wasn't difficult. I had made as much peace as I could. If the sea was going to take the light of my life, then it could take me too. The ocean's embrace was the warmest thing I've felt in years. It's alright. I prayed for years to see you once more, that somehow you were still alive. I thought once I had died that only one of those prayers could be granted. But here you are. Alive, unharmed, and with me.
O: It's foolish. I'm a grown man, but over my travels, some nights, all I've wanted is for you to tell me stories once more. 
A: I'd love nothing more. When you were young I'd have to wrestle you into bed, you always wanted another "last story". 
O: Please
A: Of course, son. One last story. 
Calliope: This scene always makes me emotional. I look into the bard's eyes. Not as weepy as I'd hoped, but there's a mist rolling across his eyes as Anticlea finishes her story.