In the Garden (Love One Another Thursday)

Note: the following is a fictional short story.

I can’t sleep.

My uncle across the room won’t stop snoring. My older cousin is crammed next to me, his elbow in my back. A baby is crying somewhere. It’s hot and crowded and dark and I can’t quite breathe right. I sit up on the blankets and my cousin sniffs and turns over. Now I don’t even have space to lay down again.

Mother and Father don’t like me waking them up in the night. I’m not supposed to get up, and I’m definitely not supposed to leave the house. But the house is so full of people I think there’s not enough air for everyone. Father has family I don’t really remember in the other room, all the beds and blankets are full, and the floor is almost covered. There’s even people sleeping out back in the barn!

I get up and tiptoe around the people laying on the ground. My uncle is still snoring, and I walk around him and out the door. The street is dark, but hardly quiet. People are still walking around, in and out of houses and shops. Fires burn on doorsteps. A horse passes, pooping on the street, and I wrinkle my nose. I like it when it’s Passover because I get to see so many new kids and there’s always something happening. But it’s also so crowded, and the city seems too small, and I have more chores to do. And the older kids take up too much space when they sleep.

I’m not supposed to leave the house at night. Even at Passover. The more I think about it, probably especially at Passover. I shuffle my feet on the doorstep. Then I step off and wander around and behind, heading for the garden. It’s not too far from my house, and I’ve been there lots of times on my own. I figure that if I get caught, it won’t be too bad if I’m in the garden.

It’s already better out here than in the house. I can actually breathe, and the snoring and snuffling from neighboring houses fades into the background. I skip a little. I pick up a rock with a red stripe through it and put it in my pocket. There’s a hole, so it immediately falls out.

When I get to the garden, it’s mostly dark, but there are a couple lights held by adults talking softly or sitting, and the moon is shining enough for me to see. I think about climbing a tree. I don’t. I try to find the rock but it’s long gone, so I pick up another one and lick it so I can see what color it really is. It’s still brown, so I toss it against a tree and it bounces off with a thunk.

That’s when I see him. There’s a man on the edge of the garden, and he’s kneeling on the ground. He’s saying something under his breath, and I think he’s praying. I get a little closer and hug a tree, peering around it. The man is crying, and that’s when I realize it’s the man from earlier in the week. The one who came into the city on that donkey. A crowd was yelling for him and putting palm branches on the ground, and Father said he’s the Messiah. I look a little closer. For someone who’s supposed to kill all the Romans, he looks really sad. And afraid. I look carefully, squinting. I think he’s crying. It’s not until someone walks by, carrying a torch, that I can see his face.

He is crying. He’s crying red tears that look like blood. And praying on the ground getting all dirty and dusty and he doesn’t look like a king, or a soldier, or the Messiah written about in the Torah.

I wonder if he’s a prophet.

He starts to get up, and I don’t know why, but I don’t want him to know I’ve been watching. I take off through the garden, tripping a couple times on roots and loose rocks. When I finally get back to my house, everyone’s still asleep. I crawl through the people on the floor and get back to my blankets, shoving my older cousin aside and closing my eyes.

When I try to fall asleep, all I can see is the prophet in the garden, crying blood like his heart is going to fall apart.