A man stayed here. (This we are told.)
He spent the night in the home of friends—
as often enough he must have done, having no fixed address
of his own. In Simon's house, it may have been; or perhaps the one
where those two sisters, who were dear to him, lived with the brother
raised from a tomb. In any case, whichever it was, the next morning
(and early, no doubt, in a land where morning breaks like a blaze)
he got up; washed in water fetched from a well; and dressed much
as he might today, in this same place. Presumably he shared the meal
set out—olives, goat cheese, flat rounds of bread? Then he rose
and said to those he was with, "Now I must go."
It was bright and hot when he stepped outside. Hills
stood about, as they still do. On the air was the smell of rosemary
and thyme; birds sang shrilly; dogs barked. And there ahead—
a dazzle of dust under heightened sun—
was the road bearing westward and winding up
to a turbulent city about to become the heart of the world.
