On Good Friday, Grief Tries to Convince Me He is Holy

Jill Crammond

Today, on the anniversary of Jesus’ last meal
with lovers who lied, I remember another

misery—the festival of my failed marriage.
From the head of the breakfast table, Grief shakes

his head, says, How did you not know?
Grief, who has been living with me since

the end, turns the morning paper my way,
allows me to read: Twenty-seven years ago

today, a rare double Super Nova was observed
in the galaxy. One Nova—Latin for new—

was blue. The other cataclysmic explosion,
reddish-yellow. Total opposites. Scientists

say they were a close pair. In this way, I learn
the universe sometimes conspires. I haven’t

slipped into a church since my wedding, but sadness
and coincidence have left me hungry. Something more

than crumbs of fake bread, thimbles of I’m so lonely
wine. I still have questions. Who really gets filled

on their best friend’s body and blood alone?
Did any church ever think to save its crumbs

for the birds? How good is a Friday married
to empty calories? I’ve been working on this sermon

for so long. Not acceptance, exactly, but a gathering
of hungry pigeons, the gradual opening

of the bread bag, the slow untying of the red wire
keeping everything fresh. The realization

that I can eat the heel, or throw the whole mess
in the trash. Always with the last word, Grief says

I was making it up all along. How instead
of a headstone, my children are my final resting place.