It is a gray morning. They say that the sun will come out this afternoon. That the clouds will break up and give way to golden light. Perhaps it will. I don’t know. All I can see is that the morning sky is a soft pale gray on this silent Sabbath. Everything seems shrouded in a gray veil, as if in mourning. Gray mourning.
What’s that? No, it’s not gray like the donkey. The donkey was another gray entirely. A deeper, richer gray. Quite lovely. So lustrous. Did you happen to touch it? Its coat was soft and smooth as velvet. My God! Was that just six days ago? It seems a lifetime. Hosanna indeed. What a fool I was. . . what fools we all were. Except for him. I noticed that he was crying, but I never asked him why. Now. . . .
Yes, you’re right, their faces did turn gray, just for a moment, before they became purple with rage. All those coins rolling around on the temple pavement, doves taking flight, people scrambling to scoop up the money. Their money. How they hated him. He was fierce that day.
Waterpot? The sky reminds you of the gray stone waterpot? What are you talking about? What water–oh, of course. That waterpot. The one we chased for an hour through the crowded streets of the city. More than once I thought we had lost it! But in the end it led us right to the perfect place. A spacious room for our gracious host. Perfect place to eat the Passover. And he poured water from that very pot to wash our feet. He washed our feet. I should have been kneeling before him, not him before me. We all should have knelt. Should have listened and understood. . . . We never should have gone to that damned garden. We should have known. Should have seen it coming. Should have stayed awake. Should have protected him. Should have. . . .
The sky is a cold, stony gray. I see that now. But not like the stone waterpot. No. It’s gray like that great gray stone that they rolled over the gaping mouth of the tomb. To seal him in. Cold and gray as death.
They say the sun will come out again. But I don’t know. All I see is gray.