I lie on my pallet that night

wondering what it was like

when the Angel of Death

stole the firstborn

of all under Egypt’s wing,

save those blessed ones

whose homes were blood-marked

for salvation,

those faithful Jews

who knew God was

as good as his word:

Pharaoh’s kingdom would suffer

until he set God’s people free.

Would I have shuddered

as the Shadow of Death

passed me by?

Would I have had

enough breath left

to praise Jehovah?

And now, because of that

long-ago night,

we Jews are free,

Pharaoh having lost

his taste for Jewish slaves,

the life of his young son

a price too high

after all.

The latter rains

have wet the earth,

but my poor eyes

are dry as the desert wind.

The three-day journey to Jerusalem

punishes with aching calves

and blistered feet.

Why is it I always manage to forget

the tedium of this trek?

I feel a complaint

rising to my lips,

but bite it back

when I remember holy Scripture.

“Let the Israelites keep the Passover

at the appointed time.”

I chew on God’s words,

determining to put one foot

in front of the other.

I shade my eyes

and look ahead,

finding my betrothed in the distance,

his gait as steady as it was

when we left Nazareth.

He may be closer to my father’s age than mine,

but Joseph will make a fine husband,