it's still dark.
maybe there's a huge spray of stars overhead, or maybe it's cloudy, but either way - dark.
nighttime.
dawn hasn't yet softened the pitch into something more navigable.
and these women come along, carrying jars and baskets and bags.
and sorrow.
that heaviest burden.
it's night, coal-dark, and their hearts are darker.
i think it's too stark for tears. i think their throats and eyes are burning, that dry ache of despair and confusion.
there's no way they could have slept.
maybe they sat up and whispered together.
maybe they stared into the dark, eyes wide open, hearts nailed shut.
they walk stark in the horrible awareness that this is a world without hope, carrying their bottles, their last things.
it's not like they'll be able to use them.
it's a pointless walk, at best.
their heart's hope is dead and gone, their grief unresolvable.
but still they come to the graves.
they come to soften the blow of death, to anoint it, to give tenderly what was not permitted in those last searing hours of life.
good samaritans ... late, but better late than not at all.
and perhaps they can persuade a guard to relent, crack the seal, and release their tears, their mourning.
dawn whispers in the east, and
there are guards, sleeping, all around.
the breeze quickens, slight, a breath
and there is an odd scent of - spring -
and the stone is rolled away
the stone is rolled away
and the dead they came to wail over is
standing there
glad and perfect and FINISHED!
light streams from everywhere
and joy is deep and sweet and still
and glad and
the relief!
the stone is rolled away
death is gone
leave that tomb for someone else,
it's irrelevant
this resurrection changes
everything.
*
