And on this day of all days you choose to waste your time washing our tired, pungent, dusty feet. Should a king stoop so low, and have his back bow down with all our ills? It does not seem right. And when we are sat, later, breaking your body further as bread, and drinking your blood down along with all those bitter herbs, the symbolism lost on us for now, shall we kick off our sandals under the table for a brief moment, and savour the rarity of soft, cleansed and sweet-smelling skin?
Art and text © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2018