Saturday

Saturday

He sat on the floor, back against the wall, paralyzed by waves of grief – of disbelief – of horror at things he would never be able to unsee. A lifetime in the dark only days before ended in response to the question, “What do you want me to do for you?” And now, in so many ways, this darkness is bleaker than any he had known. Eyes wide open staring into… into… It was all just too much. But he couldn’t move and so… he stared into the black. A watchman longing for dawn.

He shouldn’t have come, the first Passover in Jerusalem in… he couldn’t remember how long. But everything changed that moment a lifetime – a week – ago when he heard his name called and looked down into those dancing black eyes and heard the laughter in the demand, “Hurry down… today I must stay at your house!” Still remembering, still feeling, the surge of warmth – of welcome. He hadn’t been able – nor did he want – to stop the sudden generosity that erupted out of being seen, of being known. He still felt the blush of excitement overhearing, “He, too, is a son of Abraham.” So… where else would a true son of Abraham be on Passover – but Jerusalem? But now… it felt like a prison – a prison framed by Sabbath restrictions. He would set out a first light. A watchman longing for dawn.

 She had seen it coming but hadn’t counted on the awfulness of it all. She imagined her hair still fragrant with the perfume – damp with remembered tears – acquiescing in grief to his words. Prepared, with the others, to finish her care for him – spices at the ready – the way to the tomb seared in her memory. Then, she would weep again. But now, there is work to be done. A watchman longing for dawn.

He couldn’t have slept if he’d wanted to. Every once in a while his hand would reach up to touch his ear in wonder – still feeling the slice of steel – the gush of blood – the warmth of his touch. His touch. Never, in all his years in service, had he seen such a thing… the desperation driving his master, the grim satisfaction at the outcome, the fear still lurking behind his eyes – an impossible promise echoing… But no. No. Still… touching his ear again… who can say for sure? A watchman longing for dawn.

Too much wine – but not enough to dull the sharp pain of colliding words crashing around in his head. “Never! Not me! Them, maybe – but not me!” …  “I do not know Him.” “I am not!” “I don’t know what you are talking about!!” Then echoing, careening, bouncing around… that screeching crowing marking his long and sleepless night. Not afraid to die. But terrified to live. Crushed by shame, by a sorrow deeper than any he has ever known, by the weight of what might have but now could never be. Nothing for it but to get out of this god-forsaken city. A watchman longing for dawn.

It gave her no pleasure to have been proven right. From the beginning it seemed that she alone had heard the dark tinging his words. The men, arguing over their places, missed it – or couldn’t abide it. But she had known a darkness deeper than death… and, like women everywhere in all times, recognized the trajectory. Still, she had nowhere to be – and love kept her here. Her robe still crusted with blood – refusing to change – waiting to go where love was drawing her. Back to the tomb – back to where her life lie dead. A watchman longing for the dawning.

The earth jolted. Then came the Morning!