At church, they hand out the palms. Fronds for some, long, thin leaves for others. Judas plants the kiss on Christ once again. Peter denies him. Pilate prepares to wash his hands. The congregation–that is us–yells “Crucify him!” And we file out silently, placing paper programs into the recycle pile, carrying our leaves of palm. I grab two extra. Wildflowers at the edges of the parking lot are unstoppably bright. At home, I offer a palm to Chris. He shapes it into a cross and slips it under a magnet on the fridge.

March 29, 2015