His thin, nimble fingers tug nervously
at his ash-stained tunic
while the other hand smooths over
the rough spots on his face
where stubble has began to crack
his soft, youthful skin.
Up ahead, Father walks confidently,
head high, eyes to God,
singing praises with each dusty step.
Finally, Isaac speaks.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Then say nothing,” Father replies.

He can feel his Father’s eyes narrow
even without seeing them
and Isaac swallows hard.

“Would you have done it?”

Father’s steps slow.
The breeze tosses his robe gently
as he turns to face Isaac.
“Of course. He is my Father.
I am His son. And you are my son.”

Isaac stops entirely.
“That is true. Were I to have children,
would you ask of me their blood too?”

Father returns to his descent
down the brown, barren mountainside.
“Of course not,” Father says.

Isaac nods.
“No. Why should a father
ask a child to cause themselves pain
as proof of love. That is not love.
That is control.”

Father stops. They are alone
with the sound of the wind on the mountain.
“This was different. He has known me
since I was a child. Even before then.
He has watched over me my whole life.
I owe Him all I have.”

“As it is for you,” Isaac says.
“You have watched me. Known me.
Protected me. But you say you would not
ask the blood of my son from me?”

“Of course not,” Father said.
“This is just... different. He
required proof of my faith.”

“But if He knows you,
even better than I know you,
why ask you to cause hurt to yourself?
Should He not already know what
is in your heart?”

Father shook his head
and resumed walking.
Isaac paused and remained.
“Maybe we are not our fathers.”
If God walked with them
down the mountain,
He remained silent.

Father returned home, and
Isaac sat, awaiting some kind of answer,
but received only the sound of the mountain
the camels in the distance
and the sound of Father’s footsteps
in the far distance.