Easter Sunday

Close to midnight we have arrived; it seems that there are no seats left.On my father’s shoulders I am carried, as the good Jesus rode upon the donkey.We cross the crowded aisle, but the throng prevents all movement.Beside the old door we remain, beneath the whitewashed arch and the firmament.Behind me, I have the starry sky; before me, heads of hair, black veils.

The stone of the grotto has been rolled away! With lacerated body and unharmed face,clothed in light, his arm raised up in a redeeming gesture, the Nazareneemerges from his tomb, vindicated. Deep sighs go flying through the church.Joyful, having seen the risen one, fearing less the kiss of death,the weary old folk depart, leaving behind—withered—the altar of repose.

Others wait at home, clean-shaven, to go to the dance, when the time comes.The agnostic minute hand has signaled, pointing at twelve, the great portent:Holy Saturday is Saturday no more, and in the jorón1 the festivities begin.Gallant young lads, perfumed, invite the ladies to a bolero.One hears rumbling over the rooftops the skyrockets that burn in the distance.

When morning comes, quite early, the yard of my house invites us to play:chocolates are hidden beneath the tree, and followed by parents and grandparents,the romp of grandchildren goes seeking the sweet prize of flowering Easter.The years show no mercy, and the past carries off these moments so perfect!Only memories remain, preserved in the nostalgic amber of time.

Sunday! The week has ended with the resurrection of the Galilean.Another year of my life has vanished into the deep chambers of time.Out of love and respect I have observed the rites of my forefathers and my hometown.Another philosophy I have cultivated: in the empty tomb goes my creed.But the tradition I have preserved, and in my chest I shelter the feeling.