It’s the day of Passover. Are the streets quiet with folks going about their tasks a little softer than usual and the women cooking inside or out back? Or are they filled with the noise of time taken away from the usual work-a-day way of things?
Signs are understood best in hindsight, it seems. Yet I wonder if there were portents and omens or was it just another Passover day to the observing eye?
Feet will be washed by a different hand this day – did the water know of its honor? Did it cling a bit longer to the caressing palms so soon to be pierced? Or did the droplets draw back in horror at what was to come?
Did the women creep in a little closer or wander away shaking their heads at the certain folly about to come? Did they bring in the wash early against a coming storm they could sense but not see?
Did the taste of the bread on the tongue leave a taste bitter or sweet?
Did even the betrayer sip from the cup or did he just pretend?
Were they skittish like the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof? Or were they languid, the others, the accompaniers who would so soon abandon their posts?
Did the day passing into evening rest lightly on their shoulders? Or was there a whisper barely caught but unsettling in its passing that turned their heads to stare into a space they knew not?
It is Thursday. The day when it all comes to a head, a day filled with meaning.
Did they know it? Were they just a bit more thoughtful, more quiet, this Thursday?
Or did they think it was a day like any other – one bleeding into the next – barely noted in its passing – memorable only for what happens after?
Did they feel the storm coming?
I do. It crawls along my skin and burrows its way into the itching underneath of things.
It is Thursday.
Just a day – like any other.
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