I’m slow.
But even I know
this isn’t going to work.
Just try telling that
to my heart.
My head keeps spinning.
I need some space to think.
Later that day, I say to Trey,
“Look. I can see
you want to cool it for a while,
so let’s.”
Trey is all shrugs.
I wonder what that means,
but not for long.
“Yeah, well,” says Trey.
“Whatever.”
I suddenly shiver
in the winter
of his words.
The bathroom
seems light-years away.
I barely make it
before the flood of tears
puts my shame on display.
It’s official.
I live in regret.
That’s the black room
at the end of the hall.
Call before you come.
I may not be
in the mood for company.
These days, I wake
and look at The Book,
a familiar stranger
collecting dust
on my bedside table.
I haven’t felt the weight of it
in my hands for weeks.
How can I even
call it mine anymore?
I know the score.
It’s fragile pages
make it clear:
sex outside of marriage is sin.
Spin it any way you like,
I blew it.
One voice tells me
to search the Psalms
for forgiveness.
Another says
Don’t go crying to God now.
And so I pull away and stew
in a new kind of loneliness.
I slip into my mother’s room,
raid the small shelf by her bed
hunting for a book a little less holy,
some story about God twice removed.
I know its crazy,
but I need to feel Him here,
just not too near,
you know?
There was this one book I remember,
something Mom used to bug me to read.
What was it?
I scratch my memory
with a finger of thought.
Come on, Mister. Think!
I tell myself.
But it’s no use.
Frustrated, I take it out
on her door,
slamming it on my way out.
Good thing Mom wasn’t
home from work,
or I’d never hear
the end of it.
I collapse into Mom’s recliner
and reach for the remote,
my drug of choice.
My fingers graze the cover
of a dog-eared book
sitting face-up on the end table.
The title clicks:
Mary, Mary.
That’s it!
The book of poetry my mom
has loved forever,
a book about Christ’s mother.
I quickly scan
the first few pages,
find the language
a little old-timey.
Still, it reads like a diary,
and the mystery of that
makes it worth
trading in the remote.
I slip the slim volume
into my jeans pocket
for the short ride to my room.
I figure I’ll flip through
a few pages before
hitting the homework
like I’m supposed to.
That’s the plan.
Our golden boy
nestles in my arms,
clutching my breast
nursing, oblivious
to the braying of donkeys,
the mooing of cows,
and the smell of offal
pervading this stable
in the heart of Bethlehem.
Joseph hangs over my shoulder,
his face a mask of wonderment.
I sigh, no less in awe
than he.
Husband.
Mother.
Son.
These new words
roll round my mind
like shiny marbles,
bursting with color and light.
Was it truly only
nine months ago
I blushed
at the very idea of a wedding bed?
So much has happened since then.
I close my eyes, straining to remember
a time before the angel Gabriel,
a time before the Lord Jehovah
visited just long enough
to turn my world
upside down.
Early evening
is my favorite time of day.
I take my time
winding down the hills of Nazareth
to the village well.
My feet know the way
so I can concentrate on enjoying
my silent conversation
with Jehovah:
me meditating on his word,
Him speaking to my heart.
Some evenings,
when the wind strokes my cheek,
I can almost hear him
call my name.
Playful pouting is not seemly,
Father told me,
not during the holiest of seasons,
and perhaps he was right.
But I do not understand
why I must be
as heavy and somber as he
at Passover.
The coming festival fills me
with joy-
a few days away from Nazareth,
another chance to stand
in the temple of our God,
another opportunity
to feel the sway
of sweet psalms sung
by the Levite choir there.
Why should such wonders
weigh me down with the sadness
I see on Father’s face?
Mother reminds me
that each of us comes to Passover
with a different heart.
What matters, she tells me,
is that we give that heart
to God.
Her wisdom is enough
to send me to Father’s side.
“Forgive me, Father,” I say.
“Let me help you pack
for the journey.”
I lie on my pallet that night
wondering what it was like
when the Angel of Death
stole the firstborn
of all under Egypt’s wing,
save those blessed ones
whose homes were blood-marked
for salvation,
those faithful Jews
who knew God was
as good as his word:
Pharaoh’s kingdom would suffer
until he set God’s people free.
Would I have shuddered
as the Shadow of Death
passed me by?
Would I have had
enough breath left
to praise Jehovah?
And now, because of that
long-ago night,
we Jews are free,
Pharaoh having lost
his taste for Jewish slaves,
the life of his young son
a price too high
after all.
The latter rains
have wet the earth,
but my poor eyes
are dry as the desert wind.
The three-day journey to Jerusalem
punishes with aching calves
and blistered feet.