Her son was dead and she wished it weren't the Sabbath. Work would take her mind off it.
there, "resting," all she could think about was the image of her son,
beaten, bloody, dying on that cross. She shakes her head in bitter
comfort that he died quicker than most.
She wasn't even
sure where she was. His friends were milling around. The women were
making plans to care for the body the next day; she couldn't decide if
she would join them. The men were doing what men do, fretting, vowing to
protect her, as if any of them had power to do anything. The one keeps
picking up and setting down a sword. She can't help but think that old
fisherman looks like a little boy, playing at war. Reckless,
unskilled---he'd be lucky to be run through with a Roman sword rather
than captured and hanged like her son.
"Put that thing
away, Peter!" Her voice had an edge sharper than his sword. She didn't
mean to be that angry, but he obeyed. Being the mother of his dead
teacher gave her some authority, it seemed. Good. Someone had to keep
their head around here. "I never heard him teach you to be a swordsman,"
she said more softly.
Did it matter, though? What he
taught? She hoped so. She hoped everything she and Joseph went through
wasn't for nothing. After all she and her husband had seen and heard,
surely this wouldn't be the end of her son.
The sun was
setting. The men were getting more anxious as the darkness fell, but
the women were making their pallets for sleep. They wouldn't break
Sabbath by preparing the ointments and perfumes so they would get up
She herself also went to her pallet. Let the men
fret. She would sleep. Tomorrow she would find work for her hands. That
would get her through the grief, as it had through every grief she'd
known. Her hands itched to knead some dough. She fell asleep having
decided on making bread in the morning, something with leaven.