Thirst,
by Leonor Henríquez

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        “I like to eat with hunger and drink water with thirst…”

So goes the chorus of a popular Venezuelan song sung by the pristine voice of Cecilia Todd. See bellow.

I certainly drink a large glass of water with thirst and greed when I return from climbing the hill leading to my house after my daily walks.

Otherwise, I confess that I prefer coffee and wine, a formula for dehydration, I know.

I’ve made a resolution to drink more water, and now I always carry one of those giant coolers by my side, which I consider high-risk (if they fall on your foot).

But back to thirst, yes, I’m thirsty, but not exactly for water.

A radiant need.

I’m thirsty for poetry, for those vivid longings that the great poets left us and that fill the world we live in with hope.

I’m thirsty for lost hugs, those that we will surely recover in other realms.

I’m thirsty for, as García Márquez would say, “a well conversed cup of coffee” (or several).

I’m thirsty for flowers in my garden, after a long winter, the peonies are already peeking out.

I’m thirsty for giving and receiving kind gestures, no matter how small; sometimes a smile is enough.

In short, I’m thirsty, but not exactly for water.

My father used to say a saying that I get scolded every time I repeat it: “Let the oxen drink water, because they have tough skin; brandy and pure wine are what kings drink.”

But yes, I’m going to drink more water. I understand it’s essential for good health. After all, as Neruda said, “Oh, love is a journey with water and stars…”

And I’ll say goodbye, humming the song I mentioned before:

“I like to eat when I’m hungry and drink water when I’m thirsty, talk to someone who understands me, and ask someone to give me… lai… lalailá…”

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