For the second half of my Lent Writing this year I am revisiting the trigger words I have used already, but writing from a different perspective. On 3-25-19 the word was BREAK. Today I'll use the same word in a different light.
Eve reached her arm up into the tender branches of the tree, in through the chartreuse leaves just barely unfolding under little white buds. The light of the sun shone through the translucent leaves. The whole tree glowed. Her outreached hand cast a dark shadow on the creamy bark of the tree. Her hand trembled as it rose, and for one quiet moment she pulled back. Then, drawing a deep breath into her lungs, she whispered the holy name of her father, over and over again as her fingertips touched the luminous fruit. A shiver travelled down through her hand, gathering force as it went. It ended in warm resolve by the time it reached her feet. A piece of it broke off and got stuck in her heart. It remained there her whole life.
Eve slipped her slender hand around the belly of the fruit, ripe with new life. She held it there while it clung to the branch. The stem of the fruit was firmly attached to the life source, like the umbilical cord of the child she would one day bear. She wept as she whispered the name, exhaling the name of Adam, inhaling the name of Father. She held the fruit a long time, until her arm hurt, until her back ached from the reaching.
The branch holding the fruit bent down, down, down toward the earth as she pulled. Finally, with an inaudible groan, the tree let go and the branch sprung heavenward, the fruit ripped from its home and left warm and ready in Eve’s hand. She leaned against the linen soft trunk of the tree, then slid down to the ground. She sat there, her back against the tree a good long time, until the sun began to set on the horizon. Her weepy eyes gazed on the fruit, longing for the innocence she lost the day she knew that she must eat.
Finally, she lifted it to her face, inhaled the scent of it, brushed its peachy soft skin against her cheek, and caressed it with her hands, like a mother with her newborn child.
Adam came to sit beside her. He lifted her chin to look into her eyes. She watched as a river of tears wound its way down his cheek, past his neck and into the folds of his throbbing chest. With one hand she touched his soft skin, spreading the salty wetness over his heart. The other hand held the fruit.
Forbidden. Father had forbidden them to eat the fruit if they would return home unaltered. Home, where it was safe and happy and full of light unending. Home, where they were always childlike and safe under Father’s care.
Eve bowed her head, knowing that only she could break the skin of that fruit, knowing that by doing so she was breaking the thread; but also by so doing, she would pass the thread she kept into the warp and weave of all mankind.
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| The Virgin Mary Consoles Mother Eve |
Eve bowed her head and pulled her legs up against her chest, resting her elbows on her knees, the fruit placed under her nostrils. She watched her own tear wash over the fruit. Before the warmth of the day could dry that tear, she opened her mouth. Her virgin teeth broke the skin of the fruit. Blood red juices flowed out, running down her leg. She crumbled to the earth, exhausted. Adam knelt beside her, sobbing. Her hand fell at the base of the tree, the pierced fruit weeping through her fingers. The tree shook, its leaves shimmered in the light of the setting sun.
Adam knelt, gathered his courage, and then stood. He slipped his arms under the woman, pulling her body against his strong chest, carrying her and the fruit down into the valley. Just before the light was gone, he knelt before the altar he and Eve had built. Eve bowed on her knees at the altar. Adam laid a small wreath of laurels atop her head, kissed her ruby red lips, knelt beside her, and lifted his arms. Three times he lifted and lowered them. Finally, with Eve at his side, he parted his lips. And he partook.
