Perhaps poor Joseph spent his whole life trying to live up to what had become for Mary a distant – but ever potent – memory. A memory so hard to believe that it almost negated itself with each surfacing. A memory that could not possibly be true. And still, broken though that memory would be, I hope it was real and not just a fantasy of Mary’s own imagining. I like to picture the Spirit returning to her bedside, playfully hoping to rekindle the flame they had once shared. Gender-bending ghost and deviant wisp, she comes with tongues of fire after all.
