Passover 2024

Passover hasn't been the same for my family in years. A decade - to be exact. 

This year is even more difficult. I don't host a Seder. I don't attend one. But still, I miss the ones we grew up with. The ones where my father sat at the head of the table and he and my mother maneuvered around the kitchen throughout the night - serving and plating - and welcoming. 

Over the years so very many of our friends and loved ones attended Seder at my parents' home. Having a dad who could make most anything from scratch meant we never went elsewhere. A dad who cooked so well that other people bought his food for their holidays (it wasn't his store but we know who did the work!).

And though my dad did most of the cooking (minus the pot roast or chicken - cutlets or barbecue), my mom did everything else. And I do mean everything. 

Not having her here to reminisce with hurts something awful this year. To laugh and cry with. To send pics of matzo balls and ask if they looked even close to my dad's. 

My heart hurts and my memories help me grieve and heal, and I watch as another holiday comes and goes.

Happy Passover to those who celebrate. 

May yours be blessed, may our hostages be returned home safely, and may we each witness the strength of the Jewish people as the days go on.

Zeissen Pesach.

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February.

I count the days. 

They make no sense.

Mere weeks ago you were commenting on Facebook posts.

Texting or messaging.

And now.

Now I ask myself.

What is time?

How is it a new month without you here?

February.

My baby's birthday month.

We're supposed to talk about how you left me a message and I called you back from the hospital.

How you made Daddy stop playing the damned claw game and yelled, *Babe!*

Baby is coming.

You're supposed to tell me you've never seen anything like my reaction to being told to push. 

Baby is coming.

How you washed all the baby clothes in the closet (look at that, maybe you knew).

How you went shopping with their dad for their going home outfit.

And made me put a bunting on them in 54° for the ride home. 

I can still see the temperature on the clock in the car.

I can still hear you laughing every year as we remembered.

How you were there for every minute. 

February is here.

You are not.

What is time?

And how do I get through the minutes without you? 

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Nothing Feels the Same

*source unknown*

Nothing feels the same. 

It's been nearly two weeks since you left us. 

I hear your voice in the silence.

I feel your presence so strongly - it's truly a part of me.

But nothing feels the same.

Even as I write these words it seems as though I'm speaking about someone else.

It can't be you.

Not my mother.

So full of life. 

So full of love.

So not ready to go.

Each day you opened your eyes meant another day you could love us. 

Love your children. Your grandchildren.

Even your furry grandchildren.

So many left me ahead of you. 

I always knew Dexter was with Daddy.

But the cats. 

They liked you best. (Even when you weren't sure about them!)

They won you over. 

One left us this week. 

I am trying to take comfort that he has my Momma to hold him. 

But that's not enough.

You're supposed to be here. 

We're supposed to be holding each other.

Our last days together kept me from holding you the way I would have.

Kept me from combing your hair myself.

But you squeezed my hands with a strength unlike many I've ever felt. 

I knew it well. 

And I knew it was still in you. 

And I know it's still there. 

But nothing feels the same.

Because it isn't. 

Will never be. 

Nothing will ever be the same again.

I love you, Momma. 

I miss you so. 

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Lost.

Today I leave New York for the first time knowing you're not here.

I leave without having to let you know that I've landed 500 miles away. 

I leave without texting you after I've settled into the house.

I don't know how to do that. 

I don't know how to head towards the airport without telling you I'll be back soon.

Without telling you I love you.

Without holding up our ILY sign and waving out the car window.

Today I leave a New York that feels a lot less like home.

And return to a North Carolina that will feel just as empty.

I don't know how to do that.

I know my heart hurts.

I know my body aches. 

I know I have aged over the last week, I look at myself and see you and Daddy and wonder where I am in there. 

I know that seeing you both is exactly where I am in there. 

Exactly how I am who I am.

Today.

I'm supposed to return *home* and think of ways to make life go on.

Without you. 

And I have to tell you, Momma. 

I am feeling utterly lost.

I am feeling completely broken.

I am feeling so empty.

I love you, Momma. 

Lost or not, that I know. 

Always.

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Can You Imagine?

Can you imagine?

News of your loved ones missing traveling across the globe.

Over two hundred of them.

Missing.

Women.

Children.

Infants.

Babies. 

BABIES.

Grandmothers.

Grandfathers.

Can you imagine?

As the news travels people ask more questions.

And more.

And more.

What happened?

What do you mean they're missing?

We don't believe that.

What women?

What children?

What babies?

Can you imagine?

It's propaganda! 

They shout.

Cursing as they tear down the photos our people have worked so painstakingly hard to share.

There were no babies!

They scream.

As they take knives and scissors to the tape. To the photos. To scratch out their faces.

Can you imagine?

Professors.

Students.

Americans.

Immigrants.

Shouting. Screaming. Calling for the end of you, your missing loved ones, and anyone like you.

Can you imagine?

Walking down a city street and being told by someone to 'go back to your country' when you were born here and they were not.

When they don't want you to have an actual country.

When they believe the land that you identify as your homeland should be wiped clean of people like you.

Just as was done on October 7th.

To thousands of people.

Women. Men.

Children. Infants. Babies.

Grandmothers. Grandfathers.

Israelis. Americans. 

On their homeland. Or just visiting.

Lives cut down in an instant.

Can you imagine?

And those who remain missing.

All held captive.

Over one month since they were taken.

It's propaganda! 

They shout.

As they call.

For the extermination.

Of all Jewish people.

Can you imagine?

I never thought I could.

But now.

I can.

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