Born between Acacia Thorns

Dirt spun upwards, red, amber and brown, lightly swirling as the older men shifted herds away from the sun. He walked with them slowly and barefoot, knowing his wife was home with her head against the cloth, sipping bits of tea as her mother and the midwife awaited birth. He was not needed or wanted there, he knew, and so he dragged his stick along behind him making minor swirls of dirt, like those by the hooves on his black headed goats as they slapped the same earth at his same pace. He wanted a boy. He wanted a girl. He wanted God to keep his wife safe and the baby alive and well. He wanted a boy. He wanted a girl. He wanted God to keep his wife safe and the baby alive and well. He repeated this as the dirt swirled and the goats trudged, and he thought that maybe, maybe repetition had its own power. It was like prayer but he was not convinced that prayer, at least how he did it, mattered that much except in the comfort it gave him in bleak moments, in worrisome moments, like that now with his lovely wife, who never ate quite enough, who worked so hard to keep things well for him and her cousins and her parents and for any and everyone else that spun to her, her generous smile and bright eyes that she dabbed with charcoal to make them leap, even if this was hardly needed to make his heart do the same. She worked and wove, helping others carry wood or water, helping them build and fasten, helping them teach and learn. What was he doing for her, here, dragging a simple stick behind him as the sun fell beyond the trees?

She was everything to him and now, as she lay with the midwife, who was holding her hand and dabbing her forehead as his wife pushed and pushed. He wondered why he was not there with her. Why was he not? It wasn’t that it was forbidden—it simply was not done. All the other men wandered around like him, just outside the community, just like him, worried and useful. It was just like the repetitive prayers or his repeated phrases. Over and over again—was that humanity’s fate? Why was this all done—just to bring some conformist comfort? He didn’t feel any comfort in this.  If he was there, with her, he could remind her of her strength, of how it was all fine, of how he saw how mighty and wonderful she was to be bringing a new life into the world. He could at least dampen the cloths and fetch things as needed.

One of the goats veered left, towards the setting sun. He turned but the sunlight turns the earth and all round it grey; all he could see was the bright light, shimmering in rays towards him. He took a few steps, searching for his bearing and then tripped, falling into a bustle of thorns. He knew to leap up quickly, but the sun was still dazzling the horizon and he lay perfectly parallel to this site. He then felt a sting and shot of pain from his thigh upwards. He suddenly thought about nothing else expect his wife’s beauty, her grace, her wisdom and strength, as his eyes closed tight.