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Christ speaks of betrayal. Perhaps deep within he knows the one. But why this air of tension? Why did the disciples divide, each defending his innocence with all his might-instead of protecting him? John, Peter, Andrew, James the Lesser (son of Alphaeus), Bartholomew, James son of Zebedee, Philip, Thomas, Matthew, Thaddaeus, Simon the Zealot and... Judas. I pause suddenly between the two heroes of the canvas: shadow and light. How the shadow unmasked the traitor, and how the light revealed the faces of the innocent. I woke today, seeking that majestic painting again. But I found no disciples, only a family gathered round a still body. A mother's hand rests on his head, as if begging him to return to life. Sisters read the Gospel, imploring the heavens to grant him one handful more of breath. My eyes cling to every face, sparing no one. Minutes pass, yet I cannot tell: who is the traitor? The Last Supper taught me that no scene is complete without one. Is it the mother who weeps for her son? The sister who pleads with God not to host her brother today, to grant him a few more days in their embrace? Is it the small child, who denied himself sleep to keep vigil by his brother's side before losing him forever? For no child resists sleep save for a grave cause, and a brother's death is graver than all. But still-who is the traitor?