I know what you’re thinking
past lives are not really lived.
They are like the ghosts
of someone else’s children.
But this morning
I could swear I was there
when he was crucified.
No, not Him, though,
He was there too.
In fact, as I knelt,
vails and robes pooling around me
as though I had melted,
I would steal glances at Him.
I was not there for Him.
He was not part of my story
just as I would not be part of His-
not cruel enough to throw stones
and not kind enough to be kneeling at His feet.
But I would glance.
And it is there where the memory
starts intertwining with the bible story.
I do not trust that I heard Him cry
about His Father forsaking Him-
or if that is what I was told happened.
The last thing I can actually remember
is the way the dust from the path covered my clothes
and the way it tasted in my mouth
as I cried knowing
this was a day
I would never be able to forget.