101 Words

Today, we lunch at a small roadside restaurant just outside Jerusalem. Our waiter, who looks strikingly like the Eurocentric Jesus pictured in the Baltimore Catechism back when I was a believer, approaches our table with a basket of bread and a stoneware pitcher. He places the bread on the table and asks: “Water, gentlemen?”

“Please,” my companion says, licking his parched lips as the waiter pours the inviting clear liquid into his glass.

“And you, sir?”

“Make mine wine,” I quip.

Unwavering, he tilts the pitcher over my glass and fills it nearly to the brim with a deep garnet liquid.

She’d watched several videos on the You-Can-Do-It website to begin her new hobby. The directions were certainly clear and led her to expect a bounty. Hydroponics on the cheap—it cost her forty-eight dollars to get started.

Rapid growth—Liz dropped the seeds in two months ago but only some have grown.

The mason jar with the most lettuce is still disappointing, while the others are an outright disaster. By now Liz expected a more robust crop to harvest. All the leaves are the palest of greens and limply hang downwards.

Seeing is believing, but today she just can’t do it.

Cool breeze rustles the autumn leaves, crinkling like love letters discarded among the trees.

My words were hollow, I know. A melody of disjointed notes. Erratic thoughts scribbled on the page. Loneliness torments my soul.

I was a fool not to say it. You deserve more.

In the midst of heartache, moonlight illuminates your silhouette. A smile kisses your lips, your arms outstretched, and forgiveness softens your eyes. I relish the delicate brush of your hand. The cadence of your soliloquy. The scent of your hair.

I melt into your warm embrace, and whisper solemnly against your sweet lips. “I’m sorry.”

Before we married, Elijah promised I would be his only wife. He was hesitant, as we are called on to have many children. I told him I would bear him twenty children, but I would not share him.

He broke his promise. First with Eden, then Camdyn, then Kaidence. We lost Eden to pneumonia, Camdyn to pregnancy complications, and Kaidence to a fatal allergic reaction. After so much tragedy, our congregation likened Elijah to Job being tested by the devil.

The devil had nothing to do with it. The Lord was working through me to help my husband honour his promises.

Over my head is a clock. With each tick I’m further. I don’t know what from. The noise whispers with regret. It convinces me that I’ve spent it wrong.

The hum grows aggressive. Old friends look unrecognizable. I’m not small like I once was. Let it stop.

“Tic! Tic! Tic!” The clock’s restless buzzing belittles my every choice. I know I will regret regretting, yet I can’t prevent it. Loathing is so addictive; I am a sailor to a siren. Gasping for air. Oh my. It’s unbearable. I’m so helpless.

The hands stopped. Nothingness is an okay silence. I am far.

Once again, Amy had whipped up the perfect blog post: spotless home; delectable spread; handsome husband manning the grill. And their twelve-year-old daughter, Emma, in a sundress and kitten heels—radiant. (A thousand likes and counting.)

Outside Emma’s bedroom, their earlier argument ate at her. Had she pushed too hard? She’d had to buy her daughter’s cooperation—twenty dollars to smile and look pretty (probably a mistake).

Inside, she apologized. “Moving forward, less social media, more mother-daughter time. Promise.”

Emma stared at her phone.

Amy fidgeted. “Can I have a hug?”

“Sure, Mom.”

She exhaled with relief.

“It’ll cost you, though.”