I finished setting the table a little while ago. It’s set for six people: my sister-in-law, Jane, my niece, Laurie, our friends Cathy Grimes and Rick Mellicker, GB and me. As I have done for the past thirty years, I composed the Seder myself.
I began hosting the Seders after my brother, Steve, died thirty years ago on April 13. Prior to then, I didn’t much care about Passover. Not caring about it, not giving it much thought was a luxury I had until the loss of Steve was so gut wrenching, I needed to find a way to honor him. He didn’t much care about Passover either, but he did love family and a bit of ritual.
After he died, my mother didn’t have the heart to host the Seders. The fact that Steve died during Passover left her wary of the holiday. Too much reminded her of her loss. I found that I could do that. I could include family and friends and create a new ritual, one that wouldn’t remind us of the person missing at the table.
During the first twenty years or so, the Seders ran upwards of twenty people. The Seders covered topics such as ethics, Israel, the future of the Palestinians, the environment, love, happiness, animals, or American politics. We recited a few traditional prayers, the Barukh for the Matzoh, the HaGafen for the wine. Sometimes we made up our own Four Questions. When there were children, we hid the afikomen.
When we learned how to do FaceTime, my nephew Michael would join the table from New Jersey. We invited Jews and non-Jews to enjoy our ritual. My father left us in 2009, my mother in 2017. And, at the end of our brief service, we would remember the people and pets we had lost. Grandparents, parents, brothers, husbands, friends, and pets. The losses were beginning to mount up.
I don’t remember what we did during Covid. Maybe we limited it to the minimum family members and sat far apart hoping that our feeble prayers would shield us from the raging virus. I don’t know if it was Covid but the years began to run together. The ritual has become smaller. I write fewer pages. Instead of inserting my own voice into the Haggadah, I invite those at the table speak their own thoughts. In 2024, Passover came on Earth Day. It was an appropriate moment as GB and I had just returned from the solar eclipse in Texas. We were able to combine the awesomeness of the eclipse with the beauty of the Passover ritual.
Regardless of the energy we had received from the eclipse, it was a difficult time. Traveling with GB in his deteriorating state was exhausting and I could feel my years weighing me down. My sister-in-law was showing signs of cognitive difficulties. My friend, Cathy, too was having difficulty remembering things due to what she termed “long Covid”.
This year, it’s different. GB has recovered amazingly from his long-shot surgery. My sister-in-law has been diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia and is living in an assisted living facility, giving my niece breathing space to resume her own life.
This time of year prompts my memory of the Seders at my grandparents’ house or at my Aunt Nettie’s. The ritual was endlessly long and lasted well into the night when around 10 pm, we’d finally get to eat.
During college, I avoided the Seders, citing pending finals, spring skiing, or simply lack of interest in attending. One year my grandfather called me and asked me to show up. Because I adored him, I did. It was a good Seder. My grandmother roasted a prime rib, Louis’ favorite. Mine too. He made sure the piece I got was rare. I mean literally rare not the “rare” my mother would insist was “rare” when it was well done. Louis had a heart attack a few days later and died. I think he knew because he had never requested my appearance at what he and my grandmother considered the most important family gathering of the year.
My Passover table is a stew of dishes, silver, crystal, flower vases, and tablecloths passed along to me over my 77 years. The majority came after my grandmother died, the rest after my aunts Nettie and Rose and finally when my mother was gone. But, this will be the last Seder at our home. It will be the last time I open the cupboard to decide which of my grandmother’s or mother’s china to use; the last time I take out the Sterling and polish it; the last time I consider which candlesticks to use; the last time I look for the right Matzoh and the bitter herb; the last time I boil the eggs, prepare the Charozet, and arrange it all on a Seder plate gifted us for our wedding some 49 years ago.
It is the last time in this home; seated around the table I refinished myself in the dining room overlooking our Spring garden.
Air. 
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