Lazarus It was awkward after. Dead only three days, he found living to be more difficult than before. Everything was too loud and too bright. He who had returned from the dead tried to return his sisters’ smiles. For the first few days they kept touching him, as if proving to themselves that he was really there. He slept on the roof. His room reminded him too much of the tomb. Martha insisted he eat, but he wasn’t hungry. He sat at his own table stiffly, like a guest anxious that he’s overstaying his welcome. Those who’d wept when he died seemed to avoid his eyes. One day, on the road, he turned around in time to see a boy mocking the way he must have come out of the tomb, arms outstretched, lock-kneed. And then one morning Mary told him in a whisper that The Master was coming back. Martha cooked for days, while Mary stood in the yard, combing her long hair and looking up the road in the direction from which he would come. They could see the dust before the crowd appeared. The Master looked different. Tired, saddened. Those closest to him seemed to be vying to walk beside him, to be seen as his favorites. He taught for awhile, in the shade of the trees, but Lazarus was too far away to hear what he was saying. Later, they sat down together at the table, The Master at one end, Lazarus at the other. He wanted to thank him, like someone brought back with Narcan might want to thank the stranger who administered it, but there were too many people around. Martha was rushing here and there, setting down dishes, filling glasses. The Master ate very little, just some bread swiped through oil. Once, their eyes met, and he tried to hold The Master’s gaze, but it was too piercing, like trying to stare at the sun, and he glanced away. Then, when they were finished eating, Mary took a jar of perfume and poured it over The Master’s feet. From where Lazarus sat, he watched him watching her wipe his feet with her long hair. Then one of the ones who followed him mumbled something about how she could have sold the perfume and given the money to the poor. “Leave her alone,” The Master said without taking his eyes off Mary. “You’ll always have the poor around, but you won’t always have me.” After they left, Mary sat in the chair The Master had sat in, her hair hanging down in greasy locks, the candlelight bright in her eyes. She looked drunk. Martha was doing dishes loudly to shame them for sitting. The house smelled strongly of the perfume. He realized he was not merely tired. He was tired of living.
This is very compelling and resonant. I wrote something from a similar vantage point here: https://www.instagram.com/p/CUFlUloAsbl/