Memoria

Jesus wept, the saying goes, and there he was, on his crucifix, laid out on the unceremonious bench, cast rigid into a plaster block, laid to waste on the Swanston Street spine. Forsaken by Anna Sublet To see a crucifix, abandoned at a tram stop, spoke to me of false hopes, salvation, loss and delusion. Who knows when or if they will be saved? And who, if anyone, will be their saviour? I watched a couple wrestle with their mess at that tram stop, testing the gristle and tendons of their connection. They were bound together, yet I could sense her straining at the edges. Her tattoo of a square within a square spoke to me of their enclosure, and the sense of inevitability about her journey felt like a heavy weight. And so, the crucifix lay abandoned. And we are forsaken. Anna Sublet is a freelance writer.  Her personal essays have been published in The Guardian. Her latest piece for Fairfax Media was about suburban surfers, and their search for waves. You can find her on Twitter, and Facebo