I see the sun and wonder why. A clear blue sky doesn’t suit Good Friday. Where are the black clouds? Where is the imminent sense of a universe screaming? Robins, sparrows and cardinals mark their territory in song. A distant dogwood has the audacity to bloom.
Meanwhile, inside the house, our dishwasher hums. Mira and I share a laugh when we learn that Frankie started the washing machine–without opening the valve to its water line. Where is our vigil at the foot of the cross? Where is our grief, or our gratitude?
This weather. Our routines.
These are no signs for the Centurion to proclaim, “Truly, this was the son of God!”
her laughter while
on the phone