When I was six years old
I asked for a dachshund
for Christmas and
when the morning came
I woke up hours too
early and made my way
to the top of our
basement staircase—
my brother and I having
slept down there for
whatever reason.

I knew better than
to venture out
to the living room
and tree
but I pressed myself
full body up against the door,
ear pressed to the painted wood,
listening for the slightest
rustle of new life.
And I stayed there,
wriggling, painfully eager,
obnoxiously impatient,
till they finally let us out.

There is no wisdom here.
I am only saying that
I’m no good at Holy Saturday,
and I spend it every year,
like every other waiting
moment of my life,
with my full body
pressed against the door,
listening for the first
sure, certain sign of life.

I think maybe Jesus is
a little impatient too.
I mean his whole life
and ministry were all
a fairly fast-paced rush.
And really, it was 3 days
only barely.

So, I take some comfort
in imagining him
on the other side,
mirroring me,
full-body pressed
against that door
from death to life,
waiting for the first
discernible second
of dawn.

And we are both
whispering over and over,
“I can’t wait.”