If I see one more
young and giddy
mother-to-be,
I’m slamming that remote
right down the TV’s throat.
After homework,
I hurry online,
surf my way to
my picture gallery
and scroll through
last year’s photos
of me and the team.
I sure looked wicked
in my volleyball uniform.
I sure was having
a sweet time.
I sure wish I knew
if either thing
will ever be true
again.
I waited for her
on the sofa,
let winter’s darkness
sweep into the room
and swallow me whole.
Home, at last, Mom
switches on the light,
notices me fighting
back tears,
and rushes to my side.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
she asks,
her mom-o-meter
off the charts.
Here I am
about to break her heart,
and all she’s worried about
is me.
Wordlessly, I take her hand,
place it on my belly,
and cry until
my eyes run dry.
She holds me whispering,
“It’s okay, baby.
I think I already knew.
I just refused
to believe.”
After hours of bathing,
I cover myself to keep
my swollen belly secret,
then let Hadassah anoint
my head and shoulders
with Rose of Sharon, and other
favorite sweet oils
before I dress.
Less than five minutes later,
a flicker of torchlights
brighten my window
to let me know the procession
is about to begin.
In sweep Joseph’s friends, and mine
ready to spirit me away
to Joseph’s house-
my home to be.
According to tradition, we
form a happy parade
dancing through
the night-drenched streets
of Nazareth
until we reach Joseph’s door.
The crowd pushes us together
so the feasting can begin.
The tables are laden
with many tasty dishes,
but I have no appetite.
“Let him kiss me with the kisses
of his mouth,” quotes one friend.
“Your love is sweeter than wine,”
recites another.
“Arise my love, my fair one,
and come away.”
All the night long,
as wine flows,
psalms and poems,
sweet stories and love songs
swirl about us,
the strains of pipe
and lyre filling the spaces
in between.
This marriage merrymaking
is all I had ever imagined,
except for the awkward glances
between Joseph and me,
or that my right hand
would so often leave his left
to rub my belly
when no one was looking.
Then, to my surprise,
Joseph places his hand over mine,
looks deep into my eyes,
and smiles.
Two years of engagement
and preparation
are now rolled up
like a scroll.
A night of feasting
is finished, and finally
Joseph and I are led
to the nuptial chamber.
Alone, at last,
my new husband
lights the oil lamp,
then turns his back
while I free myself of my
wedding finery.
I shiver shyly, and hang my head.
None, save God and Gabriel,
have seen me thus.
It was not supposed to be like this,
my belly already swollen,
my body misshapen,
no longer the slender girl
I once was.
How can Joseph bear
to look at me?
Suddenly, all I want to do
is disappear.
“How beautiful you are,”
Joseph whispers,
wishing to ease me, no doubt.
Instead, his words
send more blood rushing
to my cheeks.
Gentle Joseph draws me
to the wedding bed,
but only to hold me.
We will not truly be man and wife
until the life inside of me sees the sun.
Like a wild desert wind,
some days
like this one
my feelings swirl
sudden and angry
for no reason
I can find.
Mother insists
this is normal for
a woman with child,
but I hate it.
I beat the floor
with my broom
and take my anger out
on dust and dirt,
trying to sweep my
momentary rage
out the door before
poor Joseph wanders into
the eye of the storm
that is me.
I have never been
one for tears.
Even as a little girl,
a fall or cut
might make me
bite my lip,
but nothing more.
Now, it seems
tears come easily
and often.
Just last night
I cried myself to sleep.
Joseph tried to comfort me,
but how could he understand
my desperate longing
for the old me,
the one whose belly
was flat enough
to nestle comfortably
on her side
any time she pleased?
I always thought
Mary had it easy,
her knowing all along
God was the one
who wrote her story.
Guess I was wrong.
Turns out
she needed God
as bad as me.
Tears spent,
Mom brings me a cool cloth
to wipe away the evidence.
Between dabs, I notice
her shoulders sagging
from something heavier
than fatigue.
Maybe I shouldn’t have told her,
I think.
Look how it’s weighing her down.
“This year, I’m really twenty-nine,” she says.
I nod, waiting
for the punch line,
wondering what her age
has to do with anything,
wondering what’s worthy
of all her hand-wringing.
“You’re a smart girl,” she says,
glancing up at me briefly,
then looking away.
“Once I told you my real age,
I knew you’d put two and two
together.”
My math skills
are failing me now.
I have no idea
what Mom’s getting at.
Then, without further ado,
she lets the truth fly.
“Mary Rudine,” she whispers,
“I’m twenty-nine now,
which means
I was fourteen
when I had you.”
One word.
That’s all I had breath for.
“What?”
After all these years
of Bible,
of “God said,”
of “wait.”
After coaxing me to do
the silver ring thing
she tells me this?
Not that she sinned,
but that she was
as young as me?
What exactly am I supposed to do
with this piece of information?
So many questions
pounding my mind to mush,
but only one word
makes it to my mouth:
“What?”
“I didn’t want
to give you permission
to be like me,” Mom says.
“To make the same mistake.
It’s a hard life, honey.”
This stranger’s words
build a wall between us.
I’m mad as hell