How are you, my dear longing? (because, I don't know why, you've become my longing!)
I've missed you almost everywhere these days, by the sea, through every indentation of a footprint impressed on the sand of the beaches, through the turquoise honey-silk of its waves, at all the monasteries where I left you at the feet of the Lord and laid you in the arms of His Mother, where all the saints promised me that yes, my love, we will hold your soul's hand at all times and at every hour, we're already holding it anyway, I love you, don't forget, okay? I love you! (they said they love us).
Perhaps today is my last day, perhaps tonight my Lord God asks for my soul from me and comes to pick me up from this earth like a snowdrop, and takes me Up, into my World beyond this world, to become a mat for His feet, because death doesn't ask if I am nine or twenty years old, because „everyone sees that the wise die as die also the unwise and the foolish” and „their grave will be their house forever, although they named their lands with their names” (Psalm 48) – everything to be put in the first person. And, if it were to be so, then I ask you: what do I do with your longing for me? Do I foolishly leave with it in my breast pocket, instead of gently sending it to kiss your thought-laden temple?
No, my dear, for you but also for me (so that I may always be light and ready for the great and unexpected takeoff, always with free hands to catch and firmly grasp the train to Heaven), I will instantly give all the love I have to give, as soon as I feel it boiling beneath my ribs, without a moment's delay, with forehead lines drawn upwards in exclamation, and not uncertainly bent into a question, because only then will my satchel of eternity be filled and only then will my luggage be packed. Because you have as much as you've given. With that much wealth you set off – with how much you've loved, with how many longings you've freely shared on all the paths of your life.
That's why I say, if I miss you, why should I wait for you to tell me first? My mouth doesn't hurt, perhaps only the feet of my heart hurt a little (more), because for several days it's been running like crazy, barefoot and with disheveled hair, burning under diagonal soles for thousands of kilometers across the continent, sea-mountain-hill-plain-plain-hill-mountain-sea, back and forth, from my chest all the way to the sweet wooden door of your sternum, at which it caresses, not knocks, then sings The Hymn of Love in a head voice, airy and pastel pink like the rose ribbon in the hair of angel fledglings, and you open to it, slightly disoriented, drunk with wonder that it arrived so quickly and that you really traveled all that way?! You're crazy!, then you collapse into each other, ascending, because Love never falls:
I also have a longingwish, a small and final one – to give you my longing. Because, frankly, it's yours anyway, I'm just carrying it for you. Take it and wander with it wherever you know best and most lovely, you too carry my longing, this hot and trans-Mediterranean marathon runner, singing and restless, come on, I challenge you, what do you say, are you in?? And, see, be careful, it's hot!
P.S. I'm not paid in money to advertise, but in hearts tickled by good music yes, so listen to the song From Longing by Mihail and give thanks later, not to me, but to Him, the Father of good music, of good life and of all that is very good.
P.P.S. I really miss you.
Ana Banica