(Ruth 1:19 – 22)
By Kathryn Hellerstein
The path grows stonier, the hills are steep
and the sheep and goats graze on the prickly brush.
On terraced plots cling olive trees, their leaves
sigh ashy melodies of my return.
I walked this path ten years ago, going up,
away from Bethlehem, whose walls now glisten
where the road dips and branches out, a maze
of what I’ve lost and what my God has gained.
Ten years ago, I had to leave behind
this starving puzzle of the ways of God.
I was young then. My husband, hungry for
a better life, trudged at my side, our sons
walked, dreaming of their suppers in Moab.
High noon. The sun is strong. It finds my face
although I want to hide how old I am,
how much I’ve lost. I’m not alone, there’s Ruth,
but how can I without my husband, sons,
be coming home? The women peer out from
their market stalls, their courtyard gates, at Ruth
concealed beside me in her foreign veil,
and ask, “Naomi? Is that you?” I spit.
“Do not call me Naomi, pleasant name.
But call be bitter, Marah, for my God
dealt bitterly with me. He emptied me
of all my fullness. I have nothing now.”