Eve Undone

III. Falling

I do not count the rise and fall of the sun, nor the shapes of the moon.  Time has no bearing on bliss. I eat of figs and dance among grasses and aid Husband in the care of this, our home. It takes but a smile from his lips for a bubbling up of joy to overwhelm me and my affections  are only an extension of my love of Him who made me. I whisper with the lamb and sing with the birds and puzzle through strange riddles with  the serpent.

Joy. In every breath. In every moment. In every turn of the blossom to face the sun. In every stream of juice that trails my chin from fruit so sweet. In Him. In the coolness of the evening when He walks beside us and His laughter lifts across the river as He delights in our wonder over this place He has given us. In silence. In starlight. In shouting an anthem of gladness that shakes the earth and hails birds into flight.

"Walk with me?"

It is the serpent, calling me from my rest beside the water. I rise and meet him where grasses are laid flat from his shallow passage and we journey along slowly to the center.

"Did He tell you that you must not eat from any tree in the garden?" Voice guttural and thick from body so low.

"He did not," I reply. "We may pick from any tree we like—except for this," for we have now arrived in the middle and The Tree stands before us. Slowly we circle it.

"And why would He suffer you to deny yourself fruit so rich, harvest so bountiful?"

And I see the boughs laden heavy and ripe and I fill my lungs and I can smell their sweetness.

"We must not eat of it and we must not touch it, for if we do, we will surely die."

"Do you know what this 'die' is?" Laughter in his voice as he steps among the fallen fruit and nudges one over with his nose.

I gasp, hand over heart, as he bites into the flesh and juices flow from his mouth to the grasses.

And all remains the same.

"If you eat of it, your eyes will be opened and you will be like Him, rich in wisdom and knowledge of this world around you. I know because I have eaten."

I lick my lips. Taste it on the wind. See the spark in Serpent's eye.  See Husband approaching, earth beneath his fingernails, questions on his  face.

"It is for knowledge," I call out to him and I stoop to gather a fruit and its flesh is firm.

He stands before me now, trust in his  eyes as he looks from The Tree onto my face.

"It is to become like  Him." And I raise this fruit of knowledge and sink my teeth into its tender pulp and let its juices flow passed my tongue.

I raise it up to Husband and he too eats like we have eaten so many fruit before.

And Serpent laughs.