Читать книгу Mother of Jesus - Ilia Grinberg - Страница 2

Mary plucked a flower, brought it to her face, closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the sweet-spicy smell. Oh, how good, how tasty! It is a pity that soon Passover. Soon it will be necessary with my parents to go to Jerusalem again. Of course, her father will buy her all sorts of jewelry, you only need to show him what you like, and it's great. But she didn’t like that after the holiday in the synagogues they would stop asking God to give rain to the earth. The real heat will come, and even with God it will make sense to beg only morning dew.

Although it was necessary to ask for dew a couple of weeks ago. It took half a month, as not a single drop fell on completely dry land. A little more and the land flowing with milk and honey will turn into a rocky desert. Flowers will wither and no longer smell , herbs dry out. All living things that can hide will hide from the scorching sun. Her campaigns to their olive grove on the outskirts of Tsiporia will also end.

Maria turned over on her back and, rolling the little stalk between her fingers, tried to find at least one cloud in the sky. In vain. She loved so much these past few weeks, when the winter rains came to an end, began in the spring warm sun, but the land has not yet turned into a scattering of assorted stones. Stones, stones, stones alone is here. Small grains of sand, larger stones, broken in by the wind, sharp, which are capable of hurting the feet, boulders.

Oh, so good, asking mother if she need anything to help, and when you hear her usual words, run out of the gate, turn right and up the hill at the end of the street, run between the olive trees and stretch out in the shadow of the oldest and the most branchy tree in the garden. And then lie down, dream, invent what will happen tomorrow, or in a week, or even next year.