It was dark. She slipped from shadow to shadow, from house to house, always getting closer. Normally, she skulked, fearful of prying eyes and ears, and hushed disapproving tones. But tonight, her steps were light as they had not been since she was a little girl, flying down hills after her brother. Those days had long since faded into another life. Skipping had turned to plodding, and rushing wind to heavy, stagnant air.

She paused as she reached the main street, her memory whirring to the left and to the right. Which way had he said? If only she was able to ask someone. Impossible. This was not her patch. People here didn’t speak to people like her. Men – who in her experience were blind and mute at the best of times – hustled by, seemingly oblivious. But she knew they noticed – their backs stiffened and steps quickened. No-one in their right mind would want to be seen with her. Too much was at stake – so much that not even a yearly pilgrimage could absolve it. She knew even her breathless presence could smear reputations, as blood soaks wool. But it was the faces of the women which stung the most. Some tried to dress up pity with banal words of meeting and greeting. Other hollow eyes followed her, boring into her past until she saw her own shame reflected. She avoided women.

The past was filthy. And dirt stands out in a crowd. At first, she knew how to hide so no-one would notice. But with every work’s night, the whispers grew louder and her hiding places grew smaller. Until there was nowhere to run. She had no excuses, no defenses. In the beginning, she lived in a tunnel of elaborate justifications. She played hide-and-seek with the truth until things got turned upside down and inside out and she no longer felt the aching after-burn of shame’s draught. Instead she felt a steady numbness spreading inside. Like that peculiar cold numb when you’ve sat on your hands for too long; things looked the same but felt distant. It was as if she'd taken all those looks and glances - those fists of fury - and had slowly-but-slowly built a thorny cocoon. Briers were added day by day until she was enclosed, fenced in. She couldn’t move anywhere, else this crown of thorns caught. So there she lived hemmed in but anesthetized. Tears had long since dried and nothing remained but salt preserving her for the vultures.

The dusk breeze caught her hair and, on a hunch, she went left. Her heart leaped as she saw the hill which told her she was heading in the right direction. It was a long slow drag up to the top which took you almost to the edge of the city walls. From the earthen jar her arms softly cradled, a sweet smell trailed, mingling with the salt of night time air. Her best dress fluttered in time with her long dark hair. She was getting close.

As she rounded the corner at the top of the hill, she paused and looked back. Below her, lantern lights flickered, puncturing the growing night. She thought of how far she had come since dawn. But this was not like other journeys – no one was expecting her; she wasn’t even sure she would be welcome. At that moment, confidence deserted her. What if he wasn’t interested? What if he was just like everyone else? But she had come so far, for so long, just to be here. For the longest moment, fear and desperation fought for her - fear bade her back down the hill, desperation pointed to the top and the house she could just about make out.

Eventually, her feet moved. Forward. Abandon took her, and she raced up to the house where she knew he was. As she approached she found a back alley away from the front entrance. She felt her way along the smooth white walls until she reached the doorway. Steeling herself one last time, she crept in.

Nobody was around, but she heard muttered voices. She knew she had to carry on else what courage was left would surely fail her. Rushing, she followed the voices until finally, through a curtain, she saw him. Jesus was sitting with his back to her, facing the other men. It looked as though dinner was over and he was teaching them in the replete silence. Every eye was on him.

She inched closer to the curtains, and parted them ever so slightly with her hand. This was it, this was the moment. There was no polite way of doing this, she knew in a few seconds all hell would break loose. She quickly passed through the curtain and entered the room.

Jesus turned and looked right into her eyes. His eyes were not like the womens’. His eyes looked and knew and welcomed. Silently she knelt; the crack of her alabaster jar on the floor echoing the gasps of Jesus' company. As tears filled her eyes, a deep mouring grasped her heart. The acceptance she knew through his eyes, the intrigue that drew her here, felt short-lived. The weight of those stares and that judgement she knew so well would crush it. Would they crush him?

And so as the perfume flowed all over his feet, she wiped them with her tear-soaked hair. A eulogy for love.