Wake

The cactus pricks the window pane, the withered rose begs for a drink. You look down at the red borscht stain upon her apron, and you think: never again will she light stoves with a wood match, or kindle coal, never again will she hoard loaves or spread pâté on a stale roll. Seven weeks after Easter, face now waxed and powdered for the worms, she waits for God at her own pace as you attempt to come to terms. All here defies the resurrection: the borsht-stained apron, the withered rose, the cactus leaning with affection towards the only light it knows.