Easter

On Friday he descended into hell. On the third day he rose again. Easter Sunday he walked the earth once more. Changed.



Lucifer, I was wrong. Fear does not taste of red wine. Failure does. And, oh, how I have failed.

He came broken and bleeding, seeking comfort and safety. What he got was questions that cut, words that had no right to be spoken.

My mother fears and despises me. She rather that I had never been born and wishes me dead. But I am her love. As totally wrong as that is.

My father? I only know what I know. He answered a question over a year and a half ago and has been telling and showing me ever since.
At best I am amusement. At worst I am tolerated for the sake of misguided friendship. And pity.
He cut me off. Read and ignored. Shown anger. Returned questions with silence. Does not rebuff my return. Yet.

And yet I still am. As long as there is some slight use for me and the sound of his voice, I will be.


What else am I? Pride? Ah yes. Lust? Strangely enough, never. Even that once it was only curiosity. That would have made things unbearable. Anger? On occasion. In the past against the fates, for all the good that was. Sloth? Not likely. Envy? That with a vengeance. Which is why the old is preferable to anything new. Greed? Tick another one. Gluttony? I like my food and wine is no friend to me.

But my use is coming to end, if not already here. So where will I be sent? To the desert of the first part of this year? Or is there somewhere else that I am still to be shown?

Lucifer, this journey is strange.