You drink the dregs of the same cup I do, but yours is the bitterest roast.
Cakes, veal, cheese, pearl onions, pomegranates– what odds does it make? You will find these are the cakes of an expert hand, rough with age, tough with sun. Under the green oaks, out on the salt plains, do we not all wander like Hagar, like Lot?
My darling, if God will send a ram! There are some things too sacred not to laugh at.
I meet him in the cool of the day, in the shade of the green trees, under a sky like a golden plum. I offer him a meal; I offer him rest. I hold his neck, tasting the sweat on him. His left hand is at my waist, each nail a crescent moon of soil.
“If it is a son we will call him Cain,” I whisper, hopeful, terrified.