March 30, 2018

It’s raining; it seems to me that every year it rains on Good Friday, and shines Easter Sunday.

It falls onto the window panes, along the stretch from the master bedroom to the living room, where my son is overdue for a nap not happening any time soon; right onto the river-turned-reservoir-turned-canal, whose waters are green whether clear or crowded. What am i trying to master.

That day was the challenge of the Kingdom’s King against all other kingdoms, big and small, systemic and personal. The day is done, the victory won, does it make any difference how today is passed?

The floor is swept, the laundry folded, kitchen packed, bathrooms cleaned, study organised. This is good, really good. I don’t like things in disarray.

I sit and watch the traffic lights change, green, red man, flashing arrow, moving cars. I hope it rains all day exactly like this. A red umbrella walks below me; a bicycle; a woman step by step; a jogging or catching the bus man; no one; nothing; cars; a bus; rain; rain; rain. 8 and a half minutes to the end of the pump. My baby still cries, I can hear him.

The apartment units around me display little differences. A man putting out kindergarten uniforms, carefully, two rags dropped off separate ledges, artificial turf on floors, a family growing a lovely climbing feature. A ledge and two cushions; I remember a neighbour’s clever study space. Empty houses mean infinite potential.

I want Good Friday to mean something, that meaning expressed out loud. My father taught me that it was the most important event in the Christian calender after i asked him for permission to fly overseas and play frisbee.

Jesus was the most alone, more than the boy in the bubble, because he was abandoned. I don’t want to abandon, I want to remember. Today feels so sad.


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