Bethany, House of Song
Miri's Prologue. Death. Summer, AD 10
I was ten when Papa died. Old enough to understand that when someone is gone, they are gone. When Papa died, the pain was worse because I understood that he wouldn’t be coming back, not like it was earlier when my eight-year-old mind kept expecting Mama to come walking from the kitchen with a smile and date cakes just for me.
But she was gone before him. It’s a struggle to remember her now.
Not like my Papa.
The day before Papa died was at the edge of summer’s end, and our barley fields were dry stubble. The famous date crops of Bethany were about to be harvested and sent off for trading. Summer afternoons at the house were long and suffocating, and Papa understood my need to stretch out in the open space. We left my big sister, Martha, with the servants and her flowers in the kitchen.