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.
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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.
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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."