Ishmael
“The sun is hot, my son. Drink.”
“I am strong and young
and I reserve the water
for the mother who feared
she would never have a child.”
“Drink, my headstrong son.”
With the skin bottle to my lips
I pretended to glug,
then handed it back, saying
“You, too.”
She drank.
Onward we trudged,
looking for the well
as we handed the skin bottle
back and forth until it was empty.
“Why does your foot stumble?”
asked my mother.
“Not to worry,” I replied.
“Why do your legs shake?”
implored my mother.
“I am headstrong and foolish,
as you say.”
My mother leaned me upon her shoulder
for as long as she could,
then dropped me with tears
and walked, sat, walked again,
sat again, then called to her God.
Yaweh answered, as he had heard my cry.
The well was found. I drank.
We traveled on in service
to the God who keeps his covenants.
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