We met in Kampala to remember the cross. A series of readers read the story aloud in a series of accents. Gray Parrots flew overhead, their red tails flashing; back and forth they flew. At the part about the cock crowing after Peter’s denial of Jesus, it wasn’t a rooster that called, but a group of Eastern Plaintain-Eaters, with their mocking laughter.
Many people stayed with Jesus that day; we heard about the women following, wailing and sobbing. We heard about His friends at the foot of the cross. And His mother. When Mary took her eight day old baby to the temple, she had been told by the old man, Simeon, that a sword would pierce her heart, but I’m sure she never imagined this particular piercing pain she felt as she looked up at her dying child.
We walked home in the dark after taking Communion with pieces of white Ugandan bread dipped in Ribena. Body and blood. Grief in a tropical evening.
She stayed til the end
then held the dead body close,
her crucified son
©Ruth Bowen Hersey
6 comments:
This short poem is so powerful Ruth. Thank you for sharing.
Ruth, wow, I appreciated your thoughts about the setting of the service, Mary's pierced heart, and the description of your communion in Uganda. Lovely. Your haiku says so much. Thank you. I always love to remember that it's Friday, but Sunday's coming. A blessed Easter to you.
It's good to remember Mary, too. Happy Easter, Ruth!
Thank you, Ruth.
An tropical Good Friday haibun--the laying-over of one "locale" with another, in disconcerting yet possible combination, concluding with a universal pang. Thanks for this, Ruth!
This gave me chills, Ruth. Thank you for sharing you.
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