Mary leaned into the wall, the cool stone relieving her skin. The sun was fond of chasing her into the shade. It's bright rays were penetrating and harsh, tempting sweat from her brow.
She reached back and tried to adjust her dark braid, for many hairs had strayed from the twist. As she fiddled with the onyx locks, she watched her son. A boy played in the dust, smooth, dark skin made darker from the copious amounts of time he enjoyed outside. Little Jesus never complained at the heat, nor cried over sunburns. He sought the natural world with a vigor, not caring about the troubles and pains it could bring.
Mary went forward and knelt beside her son, entwining her fingers in his curly head. Rich brown eyes turned up to her.
"What is your game today, Jesus?" Mary asked the boy, observing the stick-people laying about.
"A game of joy, Ima,* " responded he. Jesus turned from his crafted beings and pressed a strong, small hand against his mother's cheek. "You are so hot, Ima! Let me help you." He got to his feet and went behind his mother, unfastening her braid and letting the hair tumble thickly around her neck and back. For a moment, Mary was engulfed in discomfort as the black ropes clung to her slick skin, trapping warmth. Then her son began to calmly re-do the braid, more efficient and elegant than it was before.
When he was finished, Mary brought him gleefully into her strong arms and touched her nose to his. Little Jesus laughed as she tickled him.
"Such a sweet son I have," Mary chuckled as her boy traced the prominent arch of her nose with his fingers. "Would you come with me to bring water from the well today?"
"I go with you anywhere. May I carry the pot?"
They went inside and gathered the pots for water before setting off. Late afternoon resided into dusk, and on the way home they met Joseph, returning from an honest day of carpentry work. Joseph embraced his wife, always deeply glad to see her, and gave a whittling blade to his son. Jesus had told him about his own interests in carpentry a week ago.
Mary scolded Joseph, stating that Jesus was too small to be working with sharp things. In the end, she let the boy Savior keep the whittling blade. Jesus obeyed when she told him to be careful, and he never ran with it nor used it for anything but its purpose. There were times when he cut his fingers on accident and collected splinters in his palms, but that was the mortality of him. His eternal soul was connected to a human body, and mishaps were unavoidable. He felt the pain, sometimes dripped pearly tears, but never let obstacles stall him.
Mary thanked God for the Son every day.
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*Ima, (אִמָא) Hebrew for "Mother"
It is most likely that Jesus spoke Aramaic, but I could not find a translator that accommodated that language.
YOU ARE READING
a Collection of Short Stories
Short StoryA book for mindless reading, full of descriptive blurbs, characters that live in this head of mine, and ideas. This is simply a place where I come to grow my imaginings and practice writing.
