" . . . and a sword will pierce your own soul also. . . ." -- Luke 2:35
He is silent when other children scream
and dash about our peasant hovels,
yet he squirms in Joseph's grip
during lessons in the synagogue.
He is boisterous when he should be reverent.
What is he becoming?
That night so long ago,
faded now like old parchment. . . .
I remember the joy I felt
but not the angel's face
I remember the fear I felt,
but not the fierce holiness of God.
My mind cannot hold such glory.
And what did I agree to?
I was so young.
I never questioned.
Joseph has always been patient,
always been kind.
To me.
To the boy.
He treats him just like the others.
Almost.
But a slim shadow clouds his smile.
Awe, it is. Perhaps fear.
I feel it too, at nights,
when I look in on him sleeping.
Yesterday
while he was helping Joseph
work with wood,
a nail slipped
and gashed his thumb.
Joseph said he did not cry.
As I prepared a bandage
he stared at the flowing blood.
"It cleans the wound," he said.
He watched the blood drip
and disappear into the dirt.
Even then he did not cry.
He rarely cries in pain.
But when we see a funeral pass,
he weeps
as if they carried one of us.
©1994 John Schreiber
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