Nikki Grimes - A Girl Named Mister

The school library

is suddenly my best friend.

I sneak there

for a quick rendezvous

with Mary .

Joseph joins my family

for the evening meal,

the first we have shared

since it happened.

Does it show?

Does my face glow

like the skin of Moses

on Mt. Sinai?

“Shalom, Joseph,” I greet him,

quickly dropping my gaze,

afraid my secret is sealed

in the glint of my eye.

“How was your day?”

“The trek to Sepphoris was grueling

in this midsummer heat,

especially the climb

up that last, steep hill.

But you know, Sepphoris is

our nearest metropolis,

and that is where the work is.

So, I go.” I nod to show

that I am listening,

all the while wondering

why Mother didn’t hear us,

why a man,

righteous as my father,

couldn’t sense

the presence of God

in his own house.

Unless God did not want him to .

“I worked on cabinets today,”

says Joseph.

“Or should I say

they worked on me.

My muscles scream.

Surely, you must hear them.”

“Poor Joseph,” I tease.

“Maybe I can help.”

Rising from the table,

I plant my strong young hands

onto his stiff old shoulders

and knead the pain away.

“You are an angel,” says Joseph.

I smile to myself, thinking

No. But last night ,

I met one .

When Mother greeted me

this morning,

my only answer was a nod.

I refuse to speak until sundown,

this one-day vow of silence

the least I can do

to help me focus,

sort truth from wild imagination.

After all, where is the evidence

that my visit from

Gabriel and God

was more than a dream?

The very idea seems

impossible to me now,

that somehow Jehovah

would place

his son in me .

Three days have passed,

and life remains common

as birdsong and morning

as I move swiftly through

the market at Sepphoris,

careful to guard my purse

from the sly fingers

of small thieves.

I am here to purchase

fresh coriander and thyme,

but a tumbling mound of

luscious pomegranates

tipping the scales

of a nearby merchant

tempts me to add a few

to my basket.

I reach for one,

only to drop it when I hear

“Gabriel?”

My heart races at the sound.

“Gabriel?”

I spin round to discover

the source of my distraction.

It is a young woman,

not much older than me.

Could it really be?

Does she see the angel too?

I rush toward her,

my mind fumbling for

words to ask that

impossible question.

Two steps away,

my lips part just as

a little boy darts

from behind a market stall.

“Gabriel,” she scolds, “how often

must I tell you not to run from me

in the marketplace?”

I lower my head and turn away,

feeling foolish.

And yet, I cannot shake the feeling

of that holy presence

in my bedchamber,

nor any longer deny

that the archangel’s voice

still rings in my ear.

Did he not say

he knew of my cousin, Elizabeth?

That Jehovah had visited her too?

Once and for all,

I must learn if it is true.

I head home to pack.

My puny purchases

can wait.

I must journey to Judah.

I must speak with Elizabeth.

Lamech, a servant of Joseph,

joins me, huddling beneath

an acacia tree.

The sun threatens to peel me

like a grape,

and I am grateful for

this circle of shade,

though I would hate

for these deadly thorns

to pierce my skin.

I slide to the ground,

and lean against the trunk,

tensing at the sound

of a lion’s roar

in the distance.

Thankfully,

judging from the direction

of the sound, we are downwind

of his scent.

“Here,” says Lamech,

offering his waterskin

before slaking his own thirst.

I smile at his kindness,

remembering the Bedouin proverb

my father never tired of repeating:

Always take care

of the stranger,

for one day,

you may be the stranger.

“Learn this wisdom,”

my father said,

“for no one survives alone

in the wilderness.”

“Drink deep,” says Lamech.

“Only a camel travels miles

on a single sip.”

I reach for the waterskin,

and drink my fill.

“Come, Lamech,” I say,

springing to my feet.

“We must not allow this heat

to slacken our pace.

The hills of Judah call to me,

and I wish to see my cousin’s face

by nightfall.”

Zechariah meets us at the gate,

smiling wordlessly.

I assume, as priest,

he has taken a vow of silence,

and think no more of it.

He leads us to the inner court.

Elizabeth welcomes us

with cups of pomegranate juice,

as Lamech and I having been

spotted some distance away.

“Shalom!” Elizabeth calls to us.

As I draw near,

I rehearse what I will say,

what I will ask:

Cousin, what do you know

of angels? Of Gabriel himself?

I have to know!

But, before teeth touch tongue

and my words begin to flow,

Elizabeth declares,

“Blessed are you among women,

and blessed is the fruit of your womb!”

God’s spirit descends on me

like mist, and through my tears

I notice the swell

of Elizabeth’s belly.

Six months with child,

Gabriel had said,

and so it seems.

I drop my cup

and lift my hands to heaven.

“My soul does magnify

the Lord!”

Elizabeth has a word for this

disease churning my stomach

like rancid butter,

for the way my nostrils swell

at the very smell

of warm goat’s milk,

for this faint feeling of floating

miles from lake or ocean swell.

It is a feeling Cousin

has come to know well,

and she calls it

Proof.

I noticed this morning

the snap on my favorite jeans

seemed to have changed zip codes.

I could hardly hitch the zipper

into place. Shoot.

Mom better give

that new detergent

the boot.

Late for volleyball drills,

I race to the locker room,

dump my open backpack

on the bench, and strip

faster than Clark Kent.

I climb into my gym clothes,

moving too fast to catch Seth

flipping through my copy

of Mary, Mary .

“What’s this?” she asks.

I look up, snatch the book,

and stuff it back into my pack,

totally ignoring the O of Seth’s mouth.

“Well, excuse me!” she says,

meaning nothing of the kind.

But I don’t care.

Some things you just don’t share.

Mary, Mary is mine alone.

At least for now.

Funny how a person in a book

can come to life.

It’s like I know Mary now,

like we’ve been kicking it

half of forever.

I never thought about her

being funny, or tough,

or brave enough to travel

through the wilderness

where there were lions,