Mary washes
It’s not written in the book and may just be my own vision
but perhaps every week or ten days until the end
his mother came and washed his tunic,
mended the small tears,
made Jesus wear an old, very soft, shift of his late father’s
while his tunic dried
as he and Mary
sat on a riverbank, watching the ducks,
seeing the bugs leap about on the surface.
Perhaps they talked.
Perhaps he told her stuff about the boys he taught.
Perhaps he even complained, the way you do with your mother,
knowing she would hear.
She listened while he rested.
Those few quiet hours turned.
