Oh, how the wind blew me along, flapping my cloak, flapping the olive branches, the weeds and the papyrus.
How hard it is to write.
ÿ
Nazareth
Before I left home Father displayed the gifts of the Magi on his work bench, first removing his tools and shavings. He locked the door and lit two candles. Mother—so excited—seemed to be seeing the star as she handled the gifts.
“They haven’t changed... Joseph, you’ve taken good care of them! Oh, they’re so beautiful!”
And she knelt in the sawdust, the gold cup in her hands, its jewels redder than I had remembered. I had forgotten the gifts were so beautiful.
“Where have you kept them...in the synagogue? The geniza?” I asked.
Father nodded, frowning.
“We have decided to present them to the elders...tomorrow...at the meeting. They’ll become the temple possessions. It’s different with you going away... Mother and I have decided...”