The churches were still
packed on that glittering Easter Sunday, but not with pastel fascinators
bobbing to a recrudesced “Alleluia.” No, the sick were triaged on pews for the
church’s corporeal work of mercy. No mad scramble outside for plastic eggs filled
with jelly beans or dollar bills, with playgrounds long since roped off. That
year, we compared menus on Zoom instead of smelling the same ham or pineapple.
We were stuck in a world
of Holy Saturdays that would not end. TS Eliot’s lines about April’s cruelty,
and torchlight red on sweaty faces, and frosty silence in the garden, and agony
in stony places just repeating like a record’s run-out groove. We were
suspended in unending Lent, giving up handshakes and hugs and company instead
of Friday steaks and other vices. Nothing better to do but hunker down and wait
for the Angel of Death to pass by …
… is what I will someday
tell my grandchildren. And with any luck, they will think I am nuts.
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