If you see me in church this weekend, I’ll be crying.
Wait. Scratch that.
I’ll be weeping.
Hmm. No. That’s not right either.
Try: Sobbing. Bawling. Engaging in a back-pew sort of break-down best reserved for funerals (and only really, really, really tragic ones at that).
I know. It totally doesn’t make sense. In the fairy tale of Holy Week, Easter’s the happy ending. It’s the Resurrection! It’s death undone! It’s every promise rendered right! It’s bunnies and chocolate! Jesus, Jill. Jill—it’s Jesus!
AND YET: The minute that stone is rolled away I lose my shit. Crude, but there’s no other way to put it.
Easter fucks me up.*
A digression, not particularly brief. Indulge, please: