Eve

Eve

Ankles, pelvic bones, fingers root to the earth.  Sounds I cannot yet fathom settle on me: “This is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh.”

Dew drops cling; what is inside me quivers. I stretch and shed minerals and minute living things. A creature, wide-eyed, stands before me—like me, but different. Feeling free, reckless even, I wander amidst velvety ferns, ornamental flowers, dancing trees—seeing, touching, smelling. There are other creatures—all sizes, all colors, all wonders—with their own movements and sounds.

Then, another sound, like thunder: You must not eat from the tree in the middle of the garden, nor touch it. Or, you will die.

Die? What is die.... And, then, the sound of hissing-- “You will not surely die… You will be. Like. God.” 

Be like God…? The other-like-me, his hand envelops mine; our limbs brush. His body heat and needing penetrate. Plucking what is forbidden, I taste and offer what is not allowed. His eyes lock on mine; he bites. The other existing things stop, watch, wait—eyes wide, guttural sounds dropping.

What is this you have done?... The rumbling, again; this time, like sorrow. Sweetness dribbles from the other’s lips. I slowly wipe the stickiness from my own with the back of my hand. The other beasts, their tails swishing, their wings flapping, turn, and leave. What was above swells and veils everything. Silence stretches out with on-coming mist. The man, he looks away. My insides sink.

“But, the Serpent, he….” My sounds stumble on each other. Cold scales slither across my toes, loop my ankles. Stuck. I try to rid the stickiness from my fingers, lips, hands, but everything it touches, sticks, stays. Bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh stammers, “But, it was the woman…” and turns his back. He walks from me. I follow. Thorns bite my skin; jagged rocks wound my feet. Ahead lays a twisted path. Eternal judgement plays out--with choices. Children of the devil or children of God?

Genesis 2:4-3:24

Have you ever wondered what you would have done had you been Eve?