Passover Sedar may have been Christ's last supper, but it was my first.
We didn't go every year to Dana and George. Maybe we only went a couple of times total. But, however many they were, those evenings became oases.
Why was that night different than all other nights?
It surpassed any joy I saw in movies or the rare TV shows.
Grampa Ray pulling quarters out of our ears, a table with a real tablecloth, all the expensive light bulbs on, the house filled with smells as good as restaurants or what I imagined reading fairy tales with feasts in them, David dazzling me into gales of laughter and fits of love. It was even wonderful the one year I was the youngest and had to ask the Four Questions in Hebrew, a language I didn't know, couldn't read or even speak.
I waited for Passover as eagerly as I did my birthday.
Tradition has it that during Passover, a wandering Jew must be welcomed to any table she appears at. In my own exodus to new lands and new apartments that turned into old homes, I visited many tables with gratitude and hope I'd once again experience that utter joy I had at Dana and George's.
But recent years got busier and busier and soon it was just another night neither the Mariner or I could leave work early or a rare weekend we could stay home and write.
Why was this year different than all other years?
No work interrupted the day. We had a little bit more time. A Rabbi friend said she could come with us and bring a whole bunch of Haggadahs. And Trader Joe's had decent kosher wine.
Because Dana could not wander to all the welcomes of a Sedar table, we all brought the Sedar to her. and lo' and behold.... old joy revisited.
Sunday Memories: The Boy Next Door
A Visit to Dana
Leaving Egypt on Maundy Thursday