The Queen Is in the Field

light brown skinned woman with curly dark hair dressed in gauzy gown looking contemplative in halo-like crown with hair pinned up and curls coming down in field with tree and sunlight
I always dreamed of the palace but the field will have to do.
Even the King enters the field once a year.
I walk in, chin up, heart open, mouth and tongue prepared for prayer.
Prayer … whatever that means.
And then I hear something odd … laughter.
Actually, I see laughter.
No. I feel laughter.
I sense a hand on my back. Takes me back to moments I cannot remember, the closeness I feel among my sisters.
A touch that feels loud as when Beyonce enters a room.
Thunderous applause for simply existing.
I say, “Have we met before?”
She says, “Not officially, but I have seen you around.”
“In your tears. In your love. In your pain.”
Known and seen in a way too unfamiliar. I panic.
“I am looking for ha-melekh ba-sadeh (the king in the field).”
“Ah, I see.”
“Do you live in the palace with Him?”
“Oh no, I live here with the people; I always have.”
“But why?”
“I could be there, but then I would not be here.”
“May I go to Him then?”
“My dear, there are no keys to the palace. One day He too will know this.”
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