My hands full of bottles. Ointments for your dead body. Perfumes, spices, all intended to cover up the stench of the death of hope.
I see the stone, cracked and broken. I drop my burden, the ointments meant for your body now anointing the ground. My feet take me where my mind can’t yet comprehend: an empty tomb.
In that emptiness, I become filled. You appear before me. I don’t just mistake you for a gardener; I recognize you as a gardener. The gardener tending the blossoms of hope and love, the tender shoots of peace and justice in the world. The great gardener of Eden.
And you gently touch my face. I fall at your feet while you whisper the words I have been so desperate to hear:
don’t be afraid.