Sometimes we could have onions. They were crisp and sweet, their sharpness cooled with dill or curds. Sometimes we could have cucumbers. Those were my favorite. Like a slice of water on the tongue.
Thinking of it makes me thirsty.
Some people say they can’t remember the taste of fruit, or the smell of rain, or the rustle of grass. But I do. It’s all I can think about.
I know I shouldn’t. I should be happy. I was, for a while. After the horrors were finally done, and we looked behind us and saw nothing for miles. Nothing but swirls of water lapping over the bodies of our king and lords.
He called us a nation. Strange to hear such a word. We have no land. No king. Our king is dead. Our gods are dead. One by one, they fell.
They say this new god was known by our fathers, but we forgot about him.
Just like he forgot about us.
He said we were a nation. His nation. But we have no land. We are borrowers, trespassers, edging our way past the mighty, daring to live without wells and pastures of our own, without plows and sickles.
He said we were a nation. His nation. His treasure.
But we eat like birds, gathering only what we can carry, scraping it up from the ground with our fingers until it’s caked under our nails. For a while, we were happy. We marveled at the way it came every day, as faithful as the sun. It tastes sweet. People say it tastes like honey, but I wouldn’t know.
Moses has been on the mountain for a long time now. Some think he has already been dead for days. At first, we were afraid to even look at the mountain. But it’s strange how you get used to the fire and the smoke.
They say he will bring words from God Himself. But Moses may be dead. I don’t know this god. He is not like the ones we lost. We have no image of him, no idea what he looks like. Some say he has the wings of an eagle, for he swept aside the sea like a heap of old feathers.
Some of the elders went up the mountain with Moses and they said they saw him. They can’t say anything about what they saw. Their mouths hang slack and they look down at the ground, as if they couldn’t speak if they wanted to. They saw him but he did not kill them.
But Moses may be dead. It’s been days and days.
There is talk of another god, like the ones back home. Docile and meek, promising fertility, rich food, and prosperity. Golden. A god we can touch and carry with us.
A cucumber. Just a taste. A slice of water on the tongue.
I suppose this new god shouldn’t mind too much if we loved two gods instead of one. One we can see, the other we can fear. It’ll be better this way. It’ll be a little bit like home.
Katie Bertola 