In a black goat-hair tent at Hebron, frost creaking in its cords, an old woman spins by lamplight and waits for nobody. Twice her husband handed her to kings. Once she handed her own maid to him, and later demanded that maid be cast into the desert. Scripture remembers her laugh. She remembers two. Through long winter nights, Sarah argues with God like a plaintiff at the gate and answers readers who refuse to let her off lightly. About Moriah, she keeps a silence louder than speech. Come and sit in her smoke. Mind the milk skin, and ask carefully.
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