Not. One. Thing.
We call today “Holy Saturday”. We know what’s coming tomorrow.
His followers didn’t.
We’re looking forward to Easter celebrations. Bright spring colors. Smiles all around.
His friends weren’t looking forward to anything. Not. One. Thing.
What just happened?! He’s gone!
Three years I followed him. Hung on every word. Delegated everything I could so I could go where he went. I was sure he was going to set us free. But no. Am I a FOOL?
Don’t talk to me. I’ve nothing to say.
No, I don’t want to hear what’s on your mind.
Unless you’re going to tell me he was for real.
Naww, you don’t know any more than I do. Nevermind.
Gut-wrenching grief. He was my friend.
The sun went down on the longest day of my life as though there was nothing different from any day before.
Go ahead. Take today’s light away; yesterday sucked the life out of me.
Darkness brought gloom with it.
Unannounced, unwelcomed weeping.
(Have you ever tried to imagine how long sleepless nights were before the tic-toc of a clock in the front hall?)
C’mon, sleep, deliver me!
Give my crumpled-up heart at least a few hours of respite!
Let me not think –about anything– for at least a little while.
Not going to let me, hmm? Fine.
I’ll pull on my simlāh* and go sit by his grave. So what if the streets are deserted. I’m already alone, he’s gone.
The cadence of my weary stride remind me with every step: he’s gone – he’s gone – he’s gone
There it is up ahead. I’ll sit on the ground off to the side and out of the way. Maybe I’ll feel better being near where he’s buried, even though I’ll never see him again.
*The simlāh (שִׂמְלָה / sɪmˈlɑː / sim-LAH),
was the heavy outer garment or shawl of various forms.
It consisted of a large rectangular piece of rough,
heavy woolen or flax material, crudely sewed together
so that the front was unstitched and with two openings left for the arms.