Easter

Morning unzips its sleeping bag.

I wake with the feeling of what's been holding on to me, leaving. The feeling's vivid as the ghost a child hears walking through the house late at night, as real as the little breeze I see going out the window instead of coming in.

Now I know why I worship silence: I don't have to watch what I say.

I vow to see things to see if I'm remembering them as I first saw them. To start a new life that might last a minute or two.

I can't go back to Jesus, neither of us would know how to act around each other. If I did it would be as uncomfortable for him as it would be for me.

By the time I get out of bed it's already a nice day, full of sunlight and bright white clouds that look like they're listening to Beethoven.