Today I once again absolved Dad of all his sins. Seen and unseen, known and unknown, by deed, word, and thought. Those small sins, like flax seeds, which we scatter through our lives, which then grow and become heavy bindweed bushes, clinging to our feet, ready to seize our peace, to swallow it, for what will a man give in exchange for his peace?
In the MostBeautifulChurch, half the Christians knelt beside Her. Mihai and Roxana, fashioned in the workshops of heaven from the same shimmering white leather fabric, had the same light installed in their eyes during assembly, and their humor was tuned to the same high pitch; these two of mine laugh at all foolishness, with their gazes welded together and giggling mischievously. Remember my words, when two young people come together, don't ask them if they love each other. Ask them if they laugh together. Hearts that speak the same language laugh together.
Now they are still, kneeling, with their pearlescent faces, their eyes avoiding mine so as not to weigh down my heart, only Her, the woman given to me, she who knows me through all corners, her blue glances flashing briefly from time to time, discharging into my glasses polarities known only to us,
keep it together
don't cry
Come on, Byzantine one, be a man
I once again count Dad's sins, willingly, unwillingly, by word, deed, and thought, small seed-sins, granite-like sins, I sweep them away with the power given to me, like a housewife washing a window again, so that everything is clear, so that the holidays flow in unhindered, for thus the Risen One decided, that Dad should die on the eve of my birth, a symbolic reversal of meanings, my tastes have been mixed in my mouth ever since, the cake turned into colivă (a memorial wheat dish) and that's exactly how we blow out candles, death filled with life and then collapsed into Dad's grave, I feel the stream of tears rising within me, first in my chest, then I feel them in my throat, salty and hot, rising to my eyes to gush out, I desperately try to hold myself strong, to be a man and stay whole, and just when I can no longer, She raises her eyes to me, knowing me, and her right eye blinks briefly, above a thin smile like a death certificate,
Come on, Byzantine one, no one really dies, it's just a game, it's just a rehearsal for the great play, Your dad is around, waiting for me to make him beans with braised cabbage and salată de boeuf (don't tell her what I told you, my girl, but when I come to you, wait for me with beans and salată de boeuf, hers isn't as good as yours, don't tell her), come on, Byzantine one, smile, no one really dies,
And then the whole church, Christ is Risen, rising towards the old bells, no one really dies, it's just a game and a rehearsal for the great play, no one dies because Christ is Risen.
Fr. Crin-Triandafil Theodorescu