Wet as the rain that had fallen when his mother had died.
Wet as the sea that had rocked his boat into ruin and despair on the way from Greece to Morocco.
Wet as the water drops dropping from stalactite to stalagmite in the cave he had hidden in and made his home for 34 years, when the Visigoths came.
Wet as the blood he had spilled so many times that the cycle of life and death had become almost meaningless for a while.
Wet as the bubble baths he had given his adopted children.
His tears were wet.