Easter

His funeral was held that Sunday at the Episcopal Church
on Second Street. The church was a large white building
with a towering spire that cut across the dark sky. In front of
the church was the cemetery of parish members from the last
two hundred years, the gravestones growing moss and
collecting mold while, underneath, the bones waited for the
flesh of the second coming.


“When God came down from heaven, it was to slay
death,” the preacher said. “He became one of us, to reconcile
us to this life, so that when it is over, He may dwell in us and
we in Him. Not even one of the lilies of the field passes
without His notice. How much more do you think He will
do for each one of us? For Brian, who is now in the house of
His Maker?”


“But He rose again. His disciples did not recognize Him
on the road to Emmaus, nor did Thomas believe until he put
his fingers in Jesus’ palms and felt the wounds in his flesh.
Nevertheless, He rose. He rose again, so that we might all
have the hope of eternal life. Amen.”

She woke up at three A.M. with her chest heaving and her
ear lobe still tingling. The bedspread was tangled with the
sheet and pillows on the floor. He was gone for good, she felt
it in the pit of her stomach. Her fingernails, her fingernails, why
didn’t she ever think to rake at him, to trap some of his celestial
skin? Then someone would believe her. The world made little
sense through the cold, dark, sinless night.

“Lord, do you believe me?” She shut off the light and
watched the moonlight at her small white feet. In the
morning, his scent was not even on the pillow. She walked
through the empty house, running her hand along the
furniture and walls, feeling the shape of things in his absence.
“I didn’t even get forty days,” she muttered. Mary pulled
out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. She took a long drag.

“Ain’t no use waiting for a dead man to come back,” she
whispered to the cloud of smoke.

Counterpoint to the story: Unless there is....Every year at this time I think back to that Easter when I was seventeen or so. The light was coming through windows that seemed miles away, leaving a thick beam on the black floor. And I closed my eyes as the preacher recited that old tale of His death, and instead of paying attention to the lesson I imagined what it must have been like that day, the dirt, the crowds, the overwhelming pain. And I thought of Him saying, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." And I wept.