My life ended that morning. Right about the time he called for something to eat. Although if you’d asked me earlier, I’d have said it ended a few days before when they arrested him. Or, being more honest, when I ran away; ran away and left him and left the others and left my dream of myself behind.
All that was bad enough. Him dead and my life over. Worse was when the women were saying he wasn’t dead. And then Peter and John. And the others. And then daring myself to begin to believe. But even believing, would he want to see me again – coward, fool, traitor that I am?
But then he was with us – doors and walls be damned – and scaring the bejesus out of us. Christ! He has a nerve – creeping up out of nowhere like that and saying: ‘Sorry, did I startle you?’ Like it was all a big joke.
I thought by then I’d begun to believe. But seeing him in the flesh – wounds and all – I realised how little I had. God! We must have looked a fright because the grin on his face just grew and grew. ‘Something wrong, guys? Seen a ghost?’
Seeing is not believing. I see dead people! Breathe! And again!
‘You got anything to eat? I’m starving!’