James
by John Schreiber
I first heard her story when six,
but I never believed it.
As a dutiful son,
I never disputed my mother to her face
nor ridiculed her in public.
I heard other stories,
whispers behind her back,
words meant to cut;
and I learned how the tongue
could lash as harsh
as any Roman whip
Though my parents tried
to treat us fairly,
they never saw him like us.
And I resented it.
"Why can't you be more like your older
brother?"
the elders would say
when I fought in the alley
or slept during a synagogue lesson.
When he showed a rabbi his error,
my brother was deferential, kind,
even forgiving.
And I despised him more.
He was never rebellious.
Never.
Not as I wanted him to be.
Not as I would have been if given the chance.
When he began his foolish mission,
when people flocked to his puzzling stories
when they sought out his gentle touch
all Nazareth was baffled,
our family most of all.
At first Mother followed him secretively,
and came home distraught, frightened.
Long after the lanterns had burned dry,
we would hear her sob in the night.
Finally, we kept news of him from her.
"It's not the dream I had," she sighed,
shaking her head as she filled a wine skin.
I hated him even more.
As public debate grew,
I distanced myself further.
The Romans had brought us
worse tortures than stoning.
Slower.
I didn't want my livelihood to die,
my children watch me become
a helpless, starving man
like the ones begging at the city gates
before he made them see.
I wanted a quiet home for myself,
peace for my family,
no attention from any authorities.
When we heard of the arrest
we were stunned, but not surprised.
I wasn't there. I didn't want to be.
"I don't understand," she wept;
"it wasn't supposed to end that way."
I knew that was the only way it could end.
Days passed.
Strange rumors trickled through a sieve of whispers.
Mother dragged me to meet his friends,
rough men I hardly knew.
Then I saw. I touched the scars.
My hate fell from my heart
like burning leeches
and I wept for a brother I had never known.
Even in this
he was deferential, kind
even forgiving.
Such is my brother.
©1999 John Schreiber
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