But I wasn’t listening; I was absorbed in Mother’s appreciation as she handled the gifts, kneeling or half-kneeling, smiling; her shoulders lost some of their age. The myrrh box interested me, its aroma still evident, its chased lid yet untarnished. Mother lifted the clasp. The clasp was set with green stones. She called my attention to the ornamented hinges. She held out the gold cup to my father...
“I wish you hadn’t worried about the gifts,” she said with a sigh. “We ought to have enjoyed them...now we can see them at the temple... Look, Jesus, at this handle...ah, those were strange days in Bethlehem... God was with us...”
I loved her for her dreams and sacrifices.
I loved the hints of youth and beauty in her face.
ÿ
Nazareth
Shevat 25
Tomorrow is my last day here.
As I lay on my pallet I heard rain lash our roof; I heard the wind in the trees. Then my mind dropped back and I remembered Mother singing, crooning to me, as I lay sick as a boy. I remembered songs in the evening. I heard her laughter as we played jacks. I smelled her barley bread... I smelled roasting lamb... Father was in his workshop, his plane sliding; he was singing. As a child I loved his singing.
Now, silent, worried, he works in a preoccupied state, bothered by frequent visitors, concerned about my future. “It is wrong of you to go to Jerusalem, wrong to throw yourself into the hands of your enemies.”