The matzah has been put away. Bread – if you eat it these days – is back on the table. Passover is, well, over.
It’s the most widely observed of all Jewish holidays – an indelible part of our earliest Jewish memories: steaming bowls of matzo ball soup, gelatinous gefilte fish, sweet haroset, and, then, the hunt for the afikoman.
What I remember most of all are the people seated around our dining room table: my father and mother, my sister and brother, aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents along with a few friends who didn’t have a family seder to attend.
Three decades have passed since I last celebrated Passover in my childhood home. My grandparents have all died – my mother, too.
This past Sunday night, I lit a yahrtzeit candle and on Monday, we said the Yizkor prayers as a community. Before the kaddish prayer, I closed my eyes and remembered their voices, their laughter, and the touch of their hands.
Another Passover has passed over us but it’s not gone. We carry with us the memories, the message, and the magic of what it means to gather together with loved ones to celebrate our story.
(Passover, 1974, Omaha – I’m on the left – my father is in the middle, my brother on the right.)
(Passover, 1975 – Omaha – my brother, Adam, with Grandpa Joe and Grandpa Jake)