Easter on Weary Street
Turn left onto Weary Street, carefully avoiding children who stand on the cracked median. Being hit by a car seems a matter they trust to fate. The trees on the margins look wistful, apparently longing to be firewood flying heavenward in a finale of sparks. Even on this spring day their leaves look tired as though thinking, "This is as good as it gets." The Weary Street Baptist Church boasts the same sign as always—“You can’t go wrong if you make Weary Street your home.” The church van goes nowhere today, lying lot-locked over broken glass, behind concentration-camp barbed-wire. Only the funeral home revels this afternoon, with a sloppy, stained-glass dove diving on the dead, clenching a weedy olive branch in its beak. Nearby, live oaks rub their limbs together, pondering cicadas soon to bullet up from the underworld with electronic howls in a day of fleet mating and plunging death. If only the wind, invisible and almost inaudible could transmute fear into “fear not,” withered grass regain its green while angels lower their flaming swords.