Clean-footed you arrive for the feast with all your mates, even the quiet one who smiles too much, and eat your fill, the specialness of the occasion dulled a little by a strange atmosphere rising from the bitter herbs that you cannot quite put your finger on – or dip your bread in – the metallic tang of silver clinking a short way away. And the traditional blessings seem a little more vibrant somehow, though all dulled by the wine you each lean this way and that, up against it. And the new words rankle, even as they spark with power, and then you start to leave one by one, heading for the fresh air in the garden, where the night air zinging with olives may waken you, or send you skulking into the shadows. Behind you, under the table, thirteen lots of breadcrumbs mingle with the dust.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com