Last Passover, Dad was not well enough to attend. That freaked me out.
And, in one of those moments that, even then, you realize are precious, prescient, and Heaven-sent, BOB (brother of Blogger) decided to come North and bring his sons to Seder.
It had been more than 35 years since BOB, SOB (sister of Blogger) and I had shared Seder. And the last time, we had both parents, scores of cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, great aunts and uncles.
With Dad’s absence feeling like a foreshadow of recent events, I was so grateful to share Seder with SOB and BOB.
Like the old days. Only not at all.
We were older. The traditions meant more. The togetherness was special.
The years in between had smoothed our rough edges.
Ok, just mine.
Ok, Ok, Ok, only SOME of mine.
We had come full circle — us, kids — and found togetherness in our religious traditions.
This year, we won’t all be together. But I will carry my visual memory of last year — looking around the Seder table at my siblings, all of us gray-haired (if left untreated), carrying on the traditions handed down through the generations.
And, even though, we won’t all be together for this Passover, that memory sustains me. Because we have reconnected, in life and in tradition.
Hey, bro, next year, OK? We will miss you and your family something awful.