As usual the sun made its slow creep above the horizon,
But unusual morning music structured the silence with intermittent percussive pots clashing, windy teapot resonating, mommy caringly calling, floors pleasantly squeaking.
Then slacks and shoes replaced my jeans and jordons,
And I did not travel alone to swipe my school-given metrocard
to board the A train while trying to avoid the Bully boys
or walk down school corridors of cruelty and cliques
wishing I were dead, hoping to avoid the taunts of teen terror.
(I could not live down the extra weight I carried. No diet programs worked for me.)
I could only wish I were dead.
After pancakes, we traveled together in the family van.
And we sat in a pew instead of me
in a too-small desk.
7 last words, 7 preachers.
Also surrounded by cruelty and cliques, He had uttered word 3 “Woman, behold thy son.”
And I thought I had it rough.
I wished out of fear and shame … but He actually bled and died
out of love, for me (and them too,) and
Three days later . . . ,
This holiday, we landmarked the time with different tunes, different steps, different depths
Though the celestial dance remained the same,
Our earthly movements changed
Because today is a hol-y-day, for “without the shedding of blood. . . “
Together we remembered “He could have called 10,000 angels. . .”
but He didn’t.
This day, a bad day for Jesus.
But a good Good Friday for me,
all 200 pounds.
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