Mary, Joseph, and their son

There once lived a simple Jewish family: Mary, Joseph, and their son. 
Their only son, by the way. 
But that's where the biblical allusions end. 

Those who wanted to hear about the redemption of sins, apostles, crucifixion, 
or what was on the menu at the Last Supper, 
please proceed to the exit. 

This story is about something else. 

At 32, Mary and Joseph’s son desired to leave the nest*. 

I could use another cliche, but a nest is something everyone understands, 
a synonym for home and all those warm things. 

After all, it’s in this metaphorical nest that we first crack open our shell 
and show the world our hunger. 

So, at 32, I washed up on foreign shores. 

Like a bottle with a scrap of paper inside, 
where SOS is written in blood-red letters. 

But no one fished out the bottle, uncorked it, or, of course, read my plea for help. 
Instead, I uncorked various bottles myself many times, 
maybe searching for an answer to my distress signal. 

But that’s for my therapist. 

And so my story began here. 
In this strange, vast country. 

I passed through the Golden Gate with trepidation 
(no allusions to paradise, please), 
and as I looked around, I realized there was no turning back. 

It's not that I have nowhere to go back to. 
In this new reality, I feel like I belong. 

From my high-rise, I observe the frailties of humanity, 
knowing I am not exempt, 
and think about my relationship with despotic father, 
and my all-forgiving mother… 

They stayed there, where I no longer exist. 
And won’t be. 
And I have no gospel for them. 
No consolation. 

Looking back, I realize it has been 16 years. 
For them, it's so much time; 
for eternity, it's nothing. 
And for me... 
I don't even know.



*by "nest," I mean something more than just the parental home; 
by that time, I no longer lived with my parents, just so you know, haha.


Русская версия:
http://stihi.ru/2024/07/31/4985