Spilled Wine To Remember

This morning holds more than memories; they are imprints etched into the very fabric of my soul, kept safely in the chambers of my heart. This year the celebration of our peoples freedom and the anniversary of my fathers passing sit one day apart. 

The significance of this holiday is woven into strands of DNA passed on from one generation to another with four questions and the passing of the plates around the Passover table each holding a morsel that reminds us of the whip upon our backs and the blocks of rocks we carried for the Pharaoh. Symbols to remind, spilled wine to remember. 

The softness of her hands holding mine under the waterfall of warm soapy water and her brushing my hair before we left our reflections in the mirror and closed the light and the door. My Bubbie sat me next to her at the table with cousins, uncles and my father at the head of the table, the conductor of this orchestra, each of us with a part to play. To read, to ask, to answer, to hold the neck bone and the bitter herbs we finish in song, Aunt Stella’s voice off key, and then we dine.

My aunts and mother ferrying pungent steamy bowls of soup with Matzo balls sloshing as they are dealt like playing cards to each member of the family. Each course served a meal in itself. The White Fish and Pike piled high with horseradish, then potato kugel, green beans and brisket, More often than not I would slide out of my seat and sleep on the floor under the table while the grownups told stories which ended with bursts of laughter. When the guests were ready to leave my father would gather me up in his arms and take me to bed and my mother would come to check if he had done it to her liking and the last thing I would remember were her lips upon my forehead as she pulled the covers up around my shoulders.

I pause to look around the remembered table and realize that it must be set in heaven since my brother, sister and Aunt Lisa are the only ones who remain; the others have crossed the river Jordan but if you listen hard enough you can still hear the last refrain of Dayenu.