The words of my youth ring in my ears as I meticulously scrub the leavened bread from the inside of my drawers, the corners of my floors…the confines of my soul.



I make my lists and feel the pleasure of checking off tasks and listen to the tap, tap, tapping at my memory’s door as the words write themselves across the inside of my skull.



I remind myself that my journey has taken me away from my roots and that I do not believe I must do what I am doing, even as I pull the closet away from the wall and feel my heart jump at the sight of a long-forgotten piece of pretzel. I scoop it up and sweep the dust and sing “Dayeinu.”

I no longer believe…I think I no longer believe…

I take inventory of my pots and decide to go with aluminum pans and maybe invest in a microwave.

I cannot live in the world of my past and yet I cannot seem to leave it.

I startle myself when I yell at my kids for walking towards their room with possible biscuit crumbs innocently trailing them. I smile at them and apologize and explain that it’s almost Pesach…and can they please be careful?

They can’t wait…will there be presents this year?

I remember the afikomen and add to my list…

We will pick up our matzot tomorrow and I will put them on a high shelf, just like my mother always did.

I will take out the kittel and iron it, bring the Haggadot out of their chametz-free hiding place and polish the silver.

I will pour boiling water on my counters and I will sit on my kitchen floor and I will make Pesach because I will always be tethered to the words…the songs…the smells…the bitter tastes that are marching through my entire body as I prepare my home…my flesh…my blood…my soul for a redemption I am absolutely certain is not coming.

Source: Redemption?

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