Shepherd

I remember, when I was thirteen, I tended lambs outside the village. For a moment, it seemed, I belonged. The sun shined on the lambs and on me, like love, as though God saw us and wanted us to be happy. The lambs played, and I prayed. I cared for everything, but nobody cared for me. The lambs were not mine, and God had not given me a home. I cried and a woman heard me. She came and wiped my tears. Then it was as if everything that the sun shined on was mine— my meadow, my groves, my lambs. It still hurts that now I’m old and remember a happiness that never really existed, and a God that I wouldn’t curse.