The school library

is suddenly my best friend.

I sneak there

for a quick rendezvous

with Mary.

Joseph joins my family

for the evening meal,

the first we have shared

since it happened.

Does it show?

Does my face glow

like the skin of Moses

on Mt. Sinai?

“Shalom, Joseph,” I greet him,

quickly dropping my gaze,

afraid my secret is sealed

in the glint of my eye.

“How was your day?”

“The trek to Sepphoris was grueling

in this midsummer heat,

especially the climb

up that last, steep hill.

But you know, Sepphoris is

our nearest metropolis,

and that is where the work is.

So, I go.” I nod to show

that I am listening,

all the while wondering

why Mother didn’t hear us,

why a man,

righteous as my father,

couldn’t sense

the presence of God

in his own house.

Unless God did not want him to.

“I worked on cabinets today,”

says Joseph.

“Or should I say

they worked on me.

My muscles scream.

Surely, you must hear them.”

“Poor Joseph,” I tease.

“Maybe I can help.”

Rising from the table,

I plant my strong young hands

onto his stiff old shoulders

and knead the pain away.

“You are an angel,” says Joseph.

I smile to myself, thinking

No. But last night,

I met one.

When Mother greeted me

this morning,

my only answer was a nod.

I refuse to speak until sundown,

this one-day vow of silence