The walls of our new home seem to exhale with each burst of laughter from the kitchen, the atmosphere pulsing with a blend of chaos and tradition as my family shuffles around in preparation for the Seder. Pop-Pop Moe’s stories are the thread weaving through the busy hum, his voice a familiar comfort that finds Jamila’s attentive face amidst the organized disarray.
I stand just within the threshold, leaning against the cool, unblemished doorframe. Everything smells overwhelmingly new–the paint, the furniture, even the floors–and it’s like the sharp, tangy aroma of change has saturated the air. Part of me is still coming to grips with the fact that this polished, open expanse used to be the cozy, cramped space I called home. More room to move, but somehow the intimacy feels amplified in the openness. I feel vulnerable. Unused to these modern architectural standards.
Mom is the undisputed conductor of this symphony in the kitchen, her movements practiced and precise, the product of heritage and years spent at my grandfather’s elbow – the good one. I mean the good grandfather, not the good elbow. I think both of Pop-Pop’s elbows are bad. Even after another almost clandestine meeting with Grandma Camilla, conducted in the strictly regimented space that is ‘my mom picking me up from physical therapy, and Camilla is in the passenger seat’, nobody will tell me anything about the other Grandpa. The bad one.
Don’t they know I’m a reckless teenager, and that sort of thing only makes me want to know more?
Anyway.
The soft clang of pots, the hiss of onions on the stove, the sweet scent of wine, they all knit together into the tapestry of anticipation that is Passover.
Ben, dad, weaves his way through the house with an air of distracted focus, each item in his hands part of the intricate dance that is setting up the Seder table. The ceremonial plate, a mosaic of symbols and meaning, finds its place amidst folds of white linen–a tableau of both memory and promise. Haggadahs fan out with the whisper of pages waiting to be turned, and all the other ritual items–the Charoset, bitter herbs, and a cup of wine for Elijah–stand by as silent witnesses to the centuries – old narrative we’re about to replay.
When I was a little kid, I really hated Passover. Like, really hated it. I’m not exactly fond of it still, because it requires me to sit still for an extended period of time, but I can at least have a little more respect for what it means. Whatever it means to me, which I’m still not sure.
Pop-Pop Moe, as if he’s the guardian of these tales, punctuates his recounting with theatrical hand motions, drawing small circles of emphasis in the air that captivate Jamila. There’s a flicker of something–mirth, maybe pride–in his eyes as he glances at me, his tales brushing against the edges of my understanding, a testament to resilience and the gravity of our traditions.
I’m like a buoy set adrift amid these currents of preparation, half-helping and half-watching as I hover uncertainly, occasionally offering an extra hand or escaping a flustered elbow. I’ve not quite reconciled the sturdiness under my feet with the lingering adrenaline that remembers the violence shaking these same foundations.
“Sam, can you pass me the salt?” my Mom calls, tugging me from my reverie.
And just like that, I’m wrenched back into the now, the role of assistant immediately embraced. I shuffle past the new dining set–a scuffed fixture bearing fresh nicks–and forage through the cupboards still unfamiliar in their order, until my fingers find the coarse granules that hold more weight than their volume suggests.
We’re patched up, this place and us. Wounds closed, walls fortified. But somewhere under the stitches, there’s still healing to be done. And as I pass the salt, I wonder how many Seders it will take before the smell of newness fades into the background, before the pangs for a missing picture frame or a well-worn couch cushion no longer catch us unaware. How long does it take to ablate the leather back to its old feeling? I learned that word the other day from Gossamer, by the way. Ablate. It’s cool. I like that word.
Tonight, though, is about heritage, family, and telling the story of how we were once bound, and now are free. The narrative we’re a part of is as layered as the history it honors, and in that sense, every brisket sliced and matzah broken is a homage to the continuity of our shared experience. It’s the lingering notes in Pop-Pop Moe’s voice that link us to Queens, and it’s in the shine of the Seder plate that I catch glimpses of all the tables that came before.
The dusk of April folds itself into the evening through sheer curtains, reminding me that the Seder is not just a remembrance, but a living, breathing moment that we’re actively shaping–line by line, prayer by prayer, laugh by mixed-up reply. Wine glass by wine glass.
And somehow, amidst the crispness of new chairs and the alien lines of reimagined walls, we find the pulse of age-old tradition. The heartbeat of Passover as constant as the rhythm of waves–retelling, rejoicing, and rededicating ourselves to the narrative we carry forward, to the people we are becoming.
Time pirouettes as sunlight retreats, nudging us gently into the twilight sanctuary of our Passover observance. Candle flames dance and flicker, catching the glint in Jamila’s eye as I try to lay out the blueprint of this ancestral patchwork evening for her.
“So the story goes,” I start, waving a hand toward the Seder plate as I feel out the threads of our conversation, “each of these items is a symbol. The lamb shank bone, there, that’s the korban Pesach, the sacrifice back in the temple days.”
Jamila leans in, curiosity lighting her gaze. “And the egg?”
I grin. “Beitzah, it represents the festival sacrifice that was offered at the temple too but…” I falter for a moment, reality pulling the rug out from under my theatrical presentation. “Honestly, I’m not quite sure why an egg. Just… traditional, I guess?”
Her chuckle is the olive branch extending back to me–a quiet forgiveness for my skipped beats of cultural clarity.
“I get the gist of it,” she reassures me, her hand brushing mine with a comforting ease. “I’ll follow your lead.”
The kitchen’s buzz escalates to a crescendo of “almost readies” and “two minutes,” signaling the imminent beginning of our Seder night parade. Amidst the flurry of activity, I catch a whiff of the brisket, mingled with the sweet sting of Manischewitz, the only acceptable grape juice manufacturer, teasing the corners of my mouth into a hungry smile.
As the table rounds into the final stages of preparation, I sidle up to my Mom at the counter, where she’s arranging the last of the haroset. “Hey, Mom,” I venture, hands tucked into my pockets to present the image of nonchalance, “since I’m fifteen now, can I have some wine tonight?”
She doesn’t miss a beat, despite the hiss of the oven, as her eyebrow arches. “Wine? Absolutely not.”
I prop myself onto the counter with a sigh, my next words out before I can leash them. “But it doesn’t even affect me. My powers and all.”
The silence that follows wraps itself around my throat–a noose made of too-sharp curiosity and Mom’s sudden hawk-like attention. My Dad’s eyes suddenly turn, just a little too hard, towards me.
Rachel turns, wiping her hands on her apron as she zeroed in on me. “And just how, exactly, would you know that, Samantha?”
Cue the inward cringe–my default setting when I’ve stepped too far over the line of parental comfort. My voice stumbles into the void, my reply a cocktail of murmurs and evasions.
Ben steps in with a chuckle that carries a note of let’s-talk-about-this-later. “Conversation for another time, but tonight, stick with the grape juice. You’re on too many medications as it is.”
My protest is half-hearted, more ritual than rebellion, as the reality sinks in. I glance over at Pop-Pop Moe and Jamila, now in deep debate over whether comic books count as legitimate literature, a playful spark underpinning the clash of opinions.
“Yeah, no superpower is going to help you when you get sick from mixing alcohol and meds,” she quips, handing me a cup brimming with sparkling grape juice–a consolation prize shimmering with carbonated promise. I pointedly don’t mention that my powers probably would help that, but, whatever.
As the seder finds its starting block, a knock at the door syncs up with the closing notes of the ‘Dayenu’. It’s one of those thumping, make-yourself-at-home kind of knocks.
The door swings open, revealing a whirlwind of a woman, her artificially straightened hair a frizzy testament to her always-running-late lifestyle. She’s a twenty-year old force of nature wrapped up in slogans and thrift-store chic, clutching dog-eared Moleskine notebooks against her as though they’re state secrets. “Shalom, everybody! Did I miss the plagues?”
Abigail – Abby – edges into the room, still out of breath, an infectious grin plastered on her face as she makes her rounds, giving awkward elbow bumps probably out of an abundance of caution over lingering flu season fears.
“Oh sweet, kosher for Passover Coke!” Abby exclaims, practically lunging for the two-liter bottle sitting innocuously among the spread of seder-friendly refreshments.
Meanwhile, my father tactically redirects her enthusiasm. “There’s a place for you at the table next to Sam, Abby. Slide in, and we’ll start.”
And slide in she does, her arrival folding seamlessly into the fabric of the Small family tapestry.
Dad clears his throat, drawing the room’s focus to him with an ease born from years of leading this ceremony. He lifts the silver goblet–an heirloom that’s survived more moves and matzot crumbs than I care to count–and his voice rings clear as he ushers in Kadesh with the ancient words of Kiddush. Everyone joins in, the melody a familiar weave of our history, spilling out from every corner of the house as we honor the time-worn tradition.
Pop-Pop Moe’s voice rises and falls in sync with Dad’s, an auditory bridge spanning generations, while Mom’s soprano threads harmony into the tapestry of our chant. Abby’s leaning into the words like they’re a warm embrace from an old friend.
Meanwhile, Jamila’s silent, a respectful onlooker to the sanctity of the moment. The soft glow of the candles reflects in her dark eyes, hinting at the quiet contemplation beneath her serene exterior.
Next up, Urchatz, the ceremonial handwashing that suddenly feels super practical, what with Abby’s timely and slightly annoying reminder of the recent coronavirus wave. We take turns at the sink, not speaking — tradition dictates it, I’m pretty sure — while drying our hands on some fancier-than-our-usual hand towels.
Once everyone resettles, the Karpas follows. I grab a sprig of parsley for Jamila, handing it to her along with a small bowl of saltwater. “Dip this into there,” I instruct, demonstrating with my own, “It’s like… humility and tears or something.”
She gives a solemn nod, mimicking my movements with care. “It’s to remind us of the springtime, and the tears of our ancestors,” I continue. “Or just another reason to make things more complicated than having a normal meal, probably.”
My joke lands with a soft chuckle from her, which earns an eyebrow-raise from Mom and a smile from Pop-Pop. I continue the cycle, waiting for the horseradish next–because hey, it’s not a real celebration until we eat something that actively tries to punish our sinuses.
Her willingness to dip parsley into saltwater for the sake of my heritage swells in me a mixture of gratitude and connection beyond words or powers. It’s an understanding that tastes of saltwater and rings with the blessings of the Kiddush.
But man, Parsley tastes bad.
Dad’s hands are steady as he retrieves the middle matzah from beneath the white cloth. His voice takes on a lighthearted note as he addresses the room. “Next, we break the middle matzah.” The crisp snap of the matzah cut through the murmurs of conversation like a conductor’s baton bidding the orchestra to silence. Half gets tucked away, wrapped up neatly for the afikoman, and Dad gives me a sidelong wink, trusting me with the ritual.
“It’s like a hostage negotiation, but with more fiber and less ransom,” Abby pipes up, with a laugh that cracks through her usual bravado. “But only a little less ransom.”
Jamila’s brow crinkles in pure bewilderment. “Afikoman?” she mouths silently to me “Matzah?”. I lean in close.
“The afikoman,” I whisper back, “is the dessert matzah. We hide it, and the kids have to find it. It’s supposed to keep them awake and engaged… because nothing says ‘fun’ like scouring for bread. Also, the finder gets a prize. And matzah is a giant cracker. We’ll explain that later.”
My words spring a web of realization across Jamila’s features–a wondrous captivation mingled with the slightest hint of ‘this is absolutely bonkers’.
“So, you guys aren’t worried about supervillains showing up for round two on this place?” Abby asks, glancing around at the freshly painted walls and her nostrils twitching at the faint smell of new couch.
“Oh, not at all. S… security is being provided courtesy of the city,” My Mom answers for me.
Abby’s eyebrows furrow a degree. “Security detail, huh? That’s one way to ensure a peaceful dinner.”
She says it light, with the ease of someone who jokes to keep the monsters at bay, but the color drains a fraction from her face. I lean back, swivelling a piece of the afikoman in my fingers. “Yeah, since the house got bowled over by a dinosaur, there’s, like… a little outpost somewhere nearby. I think they bought one of the empty houses, and they keep tabs on the neighborhood in case the bad guys come back. Can you imagine them knocking during the Four Questions?”
There’s no mirth in her quick, tight-lipped smile. “Yeah. Crazy.”
“I don’t think it’s anything more than a single officer at a time, actually,” My Dad interrupts, but my Mom seems to be reading something that I’m missing and makes a quick throat-slashing motion towards him. I pretend not to notice it as I get up to hide the afikomen.
As I stash the wrapped matzah on the windowsill behind gauzy curtains, I pause for a moment to glance outside. The dwindling light flirts with the darkening street, casting lengthening shadows that crawl alongside the indifferent shape of cars and bikes parked alongside the street.
For a beat, there’s silence in my chest–a pulse-less hesitation that tightens around the ease I’d feigned moments before. But then life rushes back into the space between beats, the night calling for our attention, for wine spills and laughter lines, and the next stage of our tradition comes into focus–the procession of plagues and a tale of deliverance that never tires with the retelling.
The flickering candlelight ushers us onward. “Ready for locusts and lice?” I tease Jamila, trying to inject a sense of normalcy, a distraction from the grown-up undertones nipping at our ankles.
She nods, humor twined with an adventurous spark in her eyes. “As I’ll ever be,” she responds, diving into the next chapter of this bizarrely beautiful chronicle with a bravery that makes my heart swell–a little with pride, a lot with love.
Dad clears his throat once more, and we’re back to it. I grimace preemptively at the thought of the bitter herbs, eyeing the horseradish with a begrudged respect. Just another lesson in the paradox of heritage–pain, sacrifice and salvation, all rolled into one.
Pop-Pop Moe clears his throat, a precursor to the nights he would regale me with tales of superheroes that walked straight out of the comics and into our streets. But tonight, he embodies our maggid, our storyteller, guardian of the Exodus narrative. His eyes — those age-softened beacons — scan the room, alighting on each face like he’s drawing strength from our anticipation.
“We were slaves in Egypt,” he begins, his voice laced with the weight of history, “To a Pharaoh who feared our numbers and strength. But we were a resilient people, our will to live and freedom unwavering.”
The room is a portrait of attention as he continues, his timbre summoning the specters of ancient sands and whispered prayers, conjuring images of men and women bound by more than just shackles — bound by hope, and by a promise whispered through the generations.
“God heard our cries,” he intones, “and brought forth Moses, to be his voice, to demand from Pharaoh, ‘Let my people go.’”
Abby nudges my elbow with a knowing smirk, mouthing an over-dramatic “Let my people go.” I suppress a snort of laughter, hidden behind a quick sip of my grape juice.
“But Pharaoh’s heart was hardened,” Pop-Pop Moe says, his fingers intertwined as he laid the scene. “And so, Egypt bore witness to plagues, each a testament to the power of the Almighty and a lesson to the oppressor.”
From locusts that swarmed like dark clouds to rivers turned crimson, from boils that marred the skin to darkness that cloaked the sun–his words paint them not merely as punishments, but as signs of liberation to come. And throughout, the subtle lift of his brow, the slight twinkle in his eye, speak of the joy in reclamation, of a story that’s as much celebration as it is chronicle.
“As each plague passed,” my grandfather continues, holding us rapt, “our ancestors held their breath, hoping against hope that Pharaoh’s resolve would crumble.”
But we all know the ten plagues by heart–the Seder plate before us a mnemonic device as much as it is tradition. Abby chimes in, lightening the weight of history with a quip, “Don’t forget the livestock disease. Pharaoh must’ve been so pissed about that one.”
Even Mom stifles a chuckle at that, the humor an exhale of relief in the gravity of the tale.
“And the final, most devastating plague,” Moe’s voice lowers to a hushed gravity, a pivot back to the sobering reality of the narrative, “the death of the firstborn. It was then, in the shadow of great sorrow and suffering, that the miracle of Passover truly began.”
The words hang solemnly between us for a moment as he allows the severity of that darkness to sink in, to remind us of the cost at which our freedom was bought.
Jamila’s hand finds mine under the table, a silent squeeze under the tablecloth. The stories might be different–different lands, different tyrants, different plagues–but the longing for freedom is universal. It’s there in her grip, there in my response, there in our communal breath as Pop-Pop Moe guides us gently back to the thread of deliverance.
“When at last Pharaoh agreed, our ancestors fled,” Pop-Pop recaptures the thread of the narrative, tension rising in his voice as he draws us toward the crescendo, the splitting of the sea–the miracle to end all miracles, the divine intervention that set the stage for a nation to cross from bondage into freedom.
“As they passed through the parted waters,” he narrates, spreading his arms wide as though to embrace the entire tale within his span, “they knew that life ahead would be fraught with challenges. Yet, they marched on, for the promise of tomorrow–of a land flowing with milk and honey–far outweighed the chains they left behind.”
As the family digests the weight of the Exodus story, it falls upon me to introduce a touch of innocence back into the evening. Clasping the familiar velvet kippot — stark against my freshly shorn locks — I place it atop my head, feeling the frictionless surface of my buzz-cut oddly incompatible with the fabric that once nestled into my unruly hair.
“Mom, it feels weird,” I murmur, patting down the kippah which seems like it’s about to set sail at the slightest gust from the ceiling fan.
She offers a warm, half-humored smile, her eyes tracing the lines of my profile like she’s memorializing the moment. “You look beautiful, honey. It’s just a little different.”
Different indeed. I glance around the table, suddenly acutely aware of my role — the youngest tasked with the Ma Nishtana. Clearing my throat, I adopt a ceremonious tone. “Why is this night different from all other nights?” I intone, and with each question, I mark another rung on the Seder’s ancient ladder, feeling every eye upon me, the breath of my family lifting the words from my tongue.
By the time I conclude with the final query, an expectant pause hangs between us, filled swiftly by Pop-Pop Moe’s affirming nod and the clink of cutlery against plates as we transition to the Rachtzah, the ritualistic second handwashing that precedes the breaking of bread — or, in our case, the brittle sheets of matzah.
I oversee the Motzi and Matzah, breaking the crisp, uh, “bread” and raising it high before mumbling the requisite blessings, and we each partake in the crunch of tradition. “No yeast, no waiting,” I quip to Jamila, “think of it like fast food with a couple thousand years of history.”
The bitter herbs, unapologetic in their pungency, initiate winces and watery eyes from more than a few of us. Abby wrinkles her nose at the first taste, her voice jumping up an octave. “You weren’t kidding about the sinuses, Sam. This is cruel and unusual.”
Pop-Pop chuckles, dolloping a heap of charoset onto his piece of matzah. “It’s about the contrast, Abby. The sweetness comes after the pain,” he chimes, gaze momentarily darting toward Rachel, who nods knowingly in turn.
Their silent exchange goes unnoticed by most as the meal officially begins — the Shulchan Orech, our reprieve from the intensity of the rituals. Voices converge and cross the Seder table like a verbal choreography — debates, jokes, observations all meshing into the symphony that is a family gathering.
In the midst of the clatter and chow down, Abby steers the conversation into more intellectual terrain, chin in hand. “I’ve always wondered,” she muses out loud, eyes piercing in their earnestness, “about God hardening Pharaoh’s heart. If it was God’s doing, does that mess with free will? I mean, wasn’t that kind of a setup?”
Pop-Pop Moe, taking a patient sip of wine, sets down his glass and regards Abby with a thoughtful, almost tender, expression. “It’s a fair question, it really is. Some say it’s meant to teach us that our hearts can become hardened to the point of no return, where not even God’s miracles can soften it.”
The table falls quiet, reflective. Even Mom pauses, a forkful of gefilte fish hovering untouched.
“God gave Pharaoh chance after chance,” Moe continues, the natural orator, finding his footing. “But in the end, Pharaoh chose. Sometimes, God steps back. Sometimes, we have to feel the full weight of our choices, no matter how heavy.”
Abby looks about to counter, but then shakes her head, conceding to the wisdom she wasn’t ready to outright reject. Her mouth opens and closes a little bit like a fish. “I’ll get back to you on that,” she says, going for foo dinstead.
Laughter bubbles around the table at her expense, easing the room back into a lighter cadence. Conversations break off into their own tributaries — Jamila sharing stories from her mosque, Dad discussing city zoning like it’s the final frontier, and Mom’s chuckling recount of her latest library shenanigans involving mistaken book returns.
Feels good. Feels right.
As plates are cleared and bellies round with satisfaction, the air grows subtly charged with a playful sense of purpose. It’s time for the evening’s clandestine agenda — the hunt for the afikomen. Given the demographic around the table, it’s an adult affair, reduced from the frenzied scavenger hunt of larger family gatherings to a more subdued game of pseudo-hide-and-seek.
I announce the commencement with an air of ceremony, yet there’s a hitch of humor at the edge of my words. “The afikomen,” I declare, “has vanished in an act of unprecedented chutzpah. Who among us will prove themselves worthy of discovering the Exodus emblem?”
The truth is, I’m hoping for a bit of family drama — a healthy bout of chaos to get the blood pumping. Alas, Abby, engrossed in a side debate with Dad about politics and the state of the public library system, waves her hand dismissively. “I’ll pass, kid,” she says with an affectionate ruffle to my still-kippah-clad head. “All yours, little shark.”
That leaves Jamila, who sets down her napkin and quirks a brow at me, the mischievous tilt of her lips betraying her enthusiasm. “So, I find it, and then what?” she teases, scanning the room with calculated casualness. “What’s the prize?”
I ponder this with feigned gravitas. It’s just us, and bargaining tokens aren’t exactly brimming in our Passover reserves. My eyes fix on her, a playful spark mirrored between us as I make my proposition, heart tapping in expectation. “Find it,” I tell her, “and you get… a kiss on the cheek from yours truly.”
Her eyebrow cocks higher. “Only a kiss on the cheek?” she quips. “The Sam Small must be losing her touch.”
“The hero market’s tough these days,” I concede, a laugh tickling the edge of my tongue. “Gotta hold back for the premium prizes.”
With a conspiratorial grin, she stands, embarking on a quest amid the clinking of dessert plates and refill of wine glasses. It doesn’t take long before she’s at the window, unveiling the prize from its draped curtain retreat. She waves the wrapped matzah overhead, a champion’s trophy.
I lean back in my chair, propping my elbows on the rest, unable to quash the goofy pride that swells in my chest. “Well, a deal’s a deal.” And as she approaches, a victorious sway in her step, I press my lips to her cheek, just as I’d promised. “No dine-and-dash on this one,” I chuckle into the softness of her skin.
Abby’s observation sails across the table, a clever grin splitting her face. “Jamila, I gotta say, your negotiation skills need work. You could’ve asked for the moon, and all you got was a cheek peck? We literally can’t finish this meal until you give us the afikomen.”
The room hums with laughter, Abby’s jab the impetus for a new round of spirited banter. Jamila shrugs, feigning insult while she glances back at me, her eyes alight with silent contentment that whispers ‘I’ve got the whole universe right here.’
Despite the seemingly poor barter, the magic of the moment nestles within our midst, wrapping us in its warmth as dinner resumes with newfound vivacity. The night stretches on with second helpings and tales spun of ordinary days turned wondrous by the spice of family quirks and superhero shenanigans.
Soon enough, we rejoin our shared space of contented rumination, where heartburn is just a reminder that freedom and horseradish occasionally collide, where kisses taste sweeter than wine, and where family roots burrow deeper than any fear.
Our evening trots towards the homestretch, past the ritual meals and within the sacred shelter of tradition. Moments like these — even the uneventful searches, the playful jabs, the mouth-puckering horseradish — stitch into memory’s fabric, dyeing it with the hues of heritage and the laughter-lines of those who matter most.
At the conclusion of our impromptu afikomen festivities, Dad stands, clearing his throat with an unassuming authority that garners our attention without demanding it. He unfolds a napkin with the prayer for Bareich printed on it, the text stark and steadfast in its serif font.
“Baruch ata, Adonai,” he begins, his voice steady, not straining to carry the tune but letting it drift among us, an offering rather than a performance.
Our family follows his lead, a murmur of blessings rising, wine glasses poised in preparation for the third cup, the symbol of redemption and a toast to freedom won long ago. Jamila and I join the chorus with our sparkling grape juice, mine bubbling laughter at the juxtaposition — superheroes and ancient rituals, battling evil one moment and reciting blessings the next.
The hymns of Hallel cascade around the table, voices threading into harmonies both by accident and by some unspoken, untrained agreement. Jamila’s voice joins ours in timorous authenticity, so long as sheet music is provided, a testament to the night’s reach.
Through verses steeped in gratitude and remembrance, I catch her eye from across the table, her face luminous in the taper’s glow. She seems caught in the swell of song, swaying slightly, her lips upturned at the corners. Whether it’s the melody, the sanctity, or simply the tapestry of family that encircles her, I can’t discern, but whatever it is, it holds her rapt, gifting her with a reverence unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
The final phrases of song taper off, and there’s a moment when the echoes of our voices still ring softly in the corners of the room. We let them linger, a low hum of connectedness enveloping us before Dad — in an almost shy declaration that nevertheless carries the weight of tradition — speaks the words we’ve been spiraling toward all evening.
“Next year in Jerusalem!”
A murmur of affirmation, like a ripple of hope, makes its rounds at the table, a multitude of wishes breathed into the space between us. For peace, for unity, for safety, for normalcy, for a world where kids don’t have to turn into sharks to survive — each “next year” is personal, but shared, our desires as diverse as the storytellers around the Seder table.
“That being said, you really shouldn’t go to, like, actual Jeru-” Abby starts to Jamila and I, only to turn around at the presence of my Dad’s meaty hand on her shoulder.
“Not the time, Abigail,” he says, his eyes almost devoid of shine with some sort of faux-menacing Kubrick stare. Her entire body blanches and her shoulders sag.
“Fine. Next time, then,” she promises.
As the last candle gutters, succumbing to the patient wind of the night, we rise, chair legs scraping against the floor, plates being gathered, the remains of charoset and matzah crumbs wiped from the table. The evening closes, the pages of the Haggadah softly closing, and I can’t help but think – despite the chaos, the scars, and the world that hovers on the cusp of heroism and madness — there is solace to be found in these rituals, these moments.
“Next year,” I murmur to Jamila, our hands finding each other again beneath the table, “Wherever we are, whatever the world looks like, we’ll remember this night.”
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