It's almost Easter.
The senses awaken: a whisper in the air, "spring is almost come," and the smell. Dirt writhes with worms, flowers burst to life.
My mind goes back. I see a cross.
And hanging there, a man looks back at me.
Or maybe he's not looking directly at me. His eyes seem distant--deadened by pain and heartbreak
My first instinct is to help him, although soldiers guard the condemned, and his mouth would be three feet out of reach even if I did make it to the cross. I see a soldier wrap a dirty rag around the end of a branch. Perhaps he was listening, too.
The soldier dips the rag into a wooden bucket. He twists it in there.
I wave my arm at the soldier. He doesn't see me.
I cry out--he doesn't understand a word I say--"That's not what he meant!" I call.