He sat alone in the Olive Grove, the ground beneath him solid, comforting, sure. Leaning against a gnarled trunk he closed his eyes and wept. Tears moistened his dark lashes spilling onto skin as brown as the trees limbs. No wrinkles creased his face. His arms and legs were firm. His waist slender. His back strong. He was a young man. His life was ahead of him.
He watched as women gathered kindling for the evening meal. He would miss sitting with them. Children played in the dirt, their laughter filling the air like a sacred hymn. He would miss that sound. A large olive press, the aged wood dark from use, waited for the harvest. Grape vines, heavy with fruit, glistened in blues and purples under the hot sun. He would miss the wine’s aroma.
He felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. Breathing in the scent of youth he held the child on his lap and thought of the wife he would have loved, and the children that would have blessed Him.
The child held his hand as they walked through the grove. Tomorrow Passover would begin. He would have the meal with his friends…he would pray with his friends…his friends would betray him.
“Father… can it be taken from me?”
“Yes.”
“Is there another way?”
“No, my son.”
“Father…let it be.”
No comments:
Post a Comment