Postcards from Istanbul /5

“Or give me back
one shred from our hundreds 
of days – a forgotten word, or look –
that I might lie here counting 
them, like sheep, waiting out the dark.”

– Greg Johnson, Insomnia

 

Dear, sweet one.

Gratitude today for the precious few moments I received to see you. Your face that I have come to love so deeply and call familiar, and beloved. Each street and alleyway call out to me. Maybe here you will find that elusive something for her. This shop? No. That one? No, It must be unique. Like she is.

It dawns on me that I may not find what I am looking for in any shop or store. I will find it in the azaan, the muezzin’s beckoning. I find it in the exquisite mosaics, the silent basilicas, the shade of the olive tree, the acorns. I find it in the give of a pear’s flesh. Uneven cobblestoned marketplaces. I find gifts worthy of you only in places that are not for sale. In sun and shade, sea and wind, sweetness, nature, and God. Only that is worthy of the one you are.

Forgive me if I return home empty-handed but full of love for you.

 

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