He comes back home from Jerusalem, smelling like
Smoke and incense and blood, preoccupied in thought.
He is not usually this quiet.
A few times he looks at me, breathes in as if to speak,
Then sighs, some frustration around the edges of his exhale.
Something happened to him, it seems.
Finally, he stands up, gestures: Look, please.
And his hands spell out the story–
The angel, the promise, his question, his voice.
And he stops, sits down beside me:
Am I crazy? Is this all true?
I feel him ask me, rather than hear.
And something in his helplessness, and in his
Echo of my own doubts and spark of faith
Makes me love him even more than I did as a girl.
Maybe we are crazy and it’s true, I tell him.
What’s the harm in taking a chance?