A Friends Gift

Throughout the humid night, pearls of sweat formed on my forehead as I lay in bed, clad only in boxers and a damp towel wrapped around me. Panting like a dog, I struggled to find comfort in my restless sleep. The morning slowly unfolded, and as the blueness of dawn brightened, a young lamb’s cry pierced through the warm air. A familiar sound I encountered every morning. Tending to the lamb was one of my daily chores and like a ritual, her bleating greets me every day. My parents warned me about naming the sheep but I needed something to call her so I could greet her back.  

In the afternoon, after all the morning chores were complete, we gathered in my grandparent's backyard where the Rabbi’s prayers filled the air. Above our heads, grape vines swayed gently behind us. I wore a tank top with my sunburnt shoulders exposed, as the wind breezed by, all the dead skin on my neck raised back to life. I was standing at the waist of some uncles. Facing the table, I watched as everybody stood so still. Some men hummed softly, their arms linked in prayer, as my father approached the table, knife clutched in a sweaty fist.   

A sheet of white covering lay underneath the lamb's carcass. My father, Rafael, is a Shochet, appointed to perform the act of preparing an animal with respect. Reluctantly, I glimpsed at the scene, but quickly squeezed my eyes shut as the sound of tearing hide reached my ears. The plastic covering squeaked painfully as the knife made its jolting descent. 

Later at the table, I sat glumly picking beets and radishes out of my salad. My aunties and grandmother walked out of the kitchen bringing out with them a heavenly aroma, a testament to their culinary skills. Like a changing of the guards, they replaced dirty plates with clean ones, bringing with them, hearty meals that had lamb saturated into every dish. My hunger mingled with guilt as I thought of the small lamb that greeted me daily. Soon, this too would be her fate and I would have to be the one to seal it.   

Now at home in the quiet hours, my father sought me out. Dressed in his bedclothes he appeared tired and sternly sympathetic. 

“ I know you named one of the lambs,” he said, waiting for my response.

His words hung in the air “Yes”, I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. 

“Do you know why I told you not to name them?” he asked, his tone filled with a mix of disappointment and understanding. 

“So I don't get attached” I replied. 

“No. It’s because you haven't learned to appreciate sacrifice yet. You can bond with the animals when you learn how to let them go.” he explained, his words lingered in the silence. 

I paused, searching for the right words, “Do you name them?” I finally mustered. 

“Sometimes,” he replied curtly. 

“Now, go get ready for bed. We’ll talk about it later.” His weariness was palpable, and we never discussed the matter again. 

A year passed and the late spring arrived once more. My father had called the Rebbi at breakfast, as he did every year at this time, making preparations for the family feast everybody would be attending. That same day, my father led me to the shed, where he introduced me to the anatomy of a lamb, preparing me for the impending slaughter. He taught me how to hold the knife and where to make the swift, merciful incision. But as the day slipped by, a bitter taste filled my mouth and my stomach felt increasingly sour. 

Before our sun graced the pasture with its golden rays, I ventured out to the barn. A stolen beetroot hung from my pocket as I traversed the field. With gentle coaxing, I lured my lamb away from the herd and carried her on my shoulder. Sneaking her into my room through the open window, I fed her beetroot, trying to keep her quiet. 

 “But you’re my friend!” I said, tears streaming down my face, as she stared back at me with unwavering contentment. 

As she peacefully slept in my lap, I couldn’t help but wonder how in the world I would ever bring myself to end her life. 

The stars began to bleed from the sky, painting the horizon in hues of shame as the sun sank into its embrace. The soft light turned a tranquil blue, and the first four stars timidly emerged. The women remained seated while the men stood up, one by one, they went to rinse their hands under blessed water before taking their seats. I followed suit, aware of my father’s penetrating gaze.

 I had confided in my mother about my decision, but I had yet to tell him. The woman around me watched with nervous anticipation as one man, who occasionally referred to himself as my uncle, called out, questioning the whereabouts of the lamb. The Rabbi looked confused, and I nodded to an aunt who started bringing out large plates filled with an array of delicious foods. Potatoes, chicken, grape leaves stuffed with rice and onion, dressed cabbage, and pickled herring, but there was no lamb. 

Taking a deep breath, I spoke up, looking directly at my father. “My father was right,” I said firmly. “I am not ready to fully appreciate the sacrifice of my friend until I have given her a better life. I promise not to consume red meat until I am truly prepared to make that sacrifice.” Rafael’s disappointment was evident in his expression, but there was a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. The rest of the gathers, including the Rabbi, seemed pleased with the abundance of food on the table and were too engrossed in filling their plates to inquire further. 

For 8 years, I remained a vegetarian, occasionally indulging in chicken, fish, or eggs. Meanwhile, I nurtured Rita into a healthy, old, and beautiful sheep. She had vast grasslands to roam, and I would often spend countless days by her side, scribbling stories on the rolling hillsides. At night, I would share folklore and tales of our mysterious world, and she continued to find solace in sleeping in my lap, just like a lamb. 

In the following year, Rita gave birth, and my father informed me that the time had come. He was right. I had grown old enough to comprehend the significance of sacrifice, the importance of honoring the things we consume, and the land we call home. For eight years, I had vehemently expressed my reverence for Rita during each meal. I had resolved to grant my friend a better and more extended life. Now, as we both stood at the threshold of old age, I summoned the Rabbi once again. This time, when it was my turn, I offered a prayer before bidding farewell.