I don't sleep, I travel, the whole ritual of departing to the other side, the preview of the last breath, something after the usual kathisma, something after I recite my secret psalm, Crin's psalm, the sheets smelling of dishevelled flowers that ran away from home, the four small cardinal pillows, the cross tied to my hand (the thread of return to the world of the living), always on my left ear, to see Her one last time, her red hair setting the bed ablaze, sublingual melatonin warming up my mind's engines, She gets out of bed and opens the window wide, from the old forests of Lușta, mythical jackals are heard barking at moons unscientifically multiplied on a dark cave sky, then Her hand seeking my temple, my cheek, like a blind person verifying with their last sense a final certainty, I lie in wait for that moment of balance between here and there, between now and already, between the day's sleeplessness and the dream's ship, ready to leap into it in a fraction of a blink, involuntarily, a pirate without a work permit, this thought haunts me, it's been years since that gray-haired woman changed my life with her words, father, my husband died suddenly, in his sleep, unexpectedly and young, it seems he had an athlete's heart, he passed away in a flash and I slept all night next to his body emptied of spirit, but that's not what tears me apart, I don't remember what he said last, before falling asleep with his head on our big pillows, I don't remember, this thought haunts me and it's been years since I lie in wait for that moment before sleep to tell him I love you, so he remembers my last words if I should fail to find the path back, then melatonin rushes into me like an army of savages and I jump into the ship with big sails, with my last strength I whisper I love you and I hear myself whispering too and I fall, I slide as if under a cloud of light, I don't sleep, I travel, I go to bed like others go to the cinema, feverishly, dead people come and sit at my table, Dad still visits me to tell me some trifle, looking straight into my eyes with his blue and enormous eyes, Dad, what enormous eyes you have when you come to me, and those continents shimmering indigo under yellow skies of emotion, and how good the stars taste that I bite into in my sleep and all those squadrons of angels doing loopings above the four cardinal pillows and in the morning, when the wrist watch twitches, caught on the hand cross like a priority indicator, pulling me with it to the shore of the living like a fisherman returning home with a boat full of fish and She stretching out like a feline over the sheets rumpled by real and imaginary journeys and the palm that seeks me out as a welcome, touching my temples, her leopardess body rearing up its beauty, training it for a new light,
I'll stay five more minutes, you'll make the coffee, right? Will you make the coffee?
Fr. Crin-Triandafil Theodorescu
Photography by artawkrn / pexels.com