by Jo Wardhaugh Doyle                                               Ireland                                          01.04.2026

A woman wrapped in silence
Mary watched the unbelievable.
Did she go numb or did every cell in her soul burn to the God of the Jews to be merciful.
Did she cry to the depth of her body cells saying, “Rachma Ramah” “A voice was heard in Ramah. It was Rachel, weeping for her children, for they were no more.”
Her silence.
Her breath taken away.
Her son was gone and her, given away.
Yes, her son gave her to John.
The sword pierced her own heart.
Mother no more.
And all she could do is wrap him in her silence.
Stunned and immobile, young John broke down and sobbed at the loss of the man he loved. John was too young and sensitive, distraught by sorrow. His first. The rawest he had known.
Every fibre and nerve was an agony, like having fire turned on his feet. He was in torment, watching the light in his beloved friend’s eyes go out.
John.
“My beloved has gone,” he cried. “My beloved no longer sings and smiles. Or where are you? You are no more, and my breath has gone too.”
Mary.
Mary looks to him. Him who gave her away. Discarded to a young boy, lost, and bereaved. Where have all his friends gone? My son, my heart and soul.
Why?
But a voice within reminds her of the words of his birth. She never understood till now.
Alone she stood, standing, wrapped in her sorrow which pierced her breast, the breast of the child that had suckled her, the breast that filled him with life. And now such a death. There was death all round that day. They all died a little but just stayed breathing.
Alive enough for John, young boy, to compose his heart, his breath, his body, to move closer to Mary. Trembling of lip and limb. That day he became her son as she became his mother.