What did she think When she first heard The first mother of man That one son the other Had slain? Did she realize, this First death, meant No more presence of The first born? Those two, Midrash recounts, Were born in one hour With no travail, erev shabbat, A first, and last, painfree Birth, the first, and last, Born in the Garden.* Had she before understood Time, the irrevocable change Of each second, minute, day, Month, year, decade, and That her begats begat in Some fashion that first death, The first account of time’s march, And its hopes, and its decays? Did she mourn? And if so, For whom? Did she speak to the One who slayed, but Was still alive? And how many myriads Of mothers since have had To grieve since that first Mourning? Are they less confused than Our first mother mourning The first son? And why must this mourning Continue? And when will it end? And what can we do? Only live, and hope, and love, And pray And do the best we can to make What we have, this spinning dust globe, More like the garden in which The mother of us all gave birth To the first of us all. (*Sanhedrin 38b: an hour by hour account of Man’s first day, and last, day in Gan Eden)
As a mother, I read this poignant piece and now wonder, too, about that tragic event and how she must have felt.
This is beautifully written, Dennis—and that the begats persist—so tragic.
Sincerely,
Anne