Early evening

is my favorite time of day.

I take my time

winding down the hills of Nazareth

to the village well.

My feet know the way

so I can concentrate on enjoying

my silent conversation

with Jehovah:

me meditating on his word,

Him speaking to my heart.

Some evenings,

when the wind strokes my cheek,

I can almost hear him

call my name.

Playful pouting is not seemly,

Father told me,

not during the holiest of seasons,

and perhaps he was right.

But I do not understand

why I must be

as heavy and somber as he

at Passover.

The coming festival fills me

with joy-

a few days away from Nazareth,

another chance to stand

in the temple of our God,

another opportunity

to feel the sway

of sweet psalms sung

by the Levite choir there.

Why should such wonders

weigh me down with the sadness

I see on Father’s face?

Mother reminds me

that each of us comes to Passover

with a different heart.

What matters, she tells me,