The lethargy of spring and the lingering weight of pollen in my head and chest have left me, this year, all too comfortable with the vocabulary of Lent. The wind wails across the still-empty fields and I watch with bone-heavy fatigue twisting cones of dust, the dust from which I’ve come and to which I will return. It seems years ago that I stood at the altar and voluntarily accepted the ashes.
On being an adult at Easter
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