Passover

The first night of Passover and I'm here
without my family,
just the dog running around the table,
trying her best to entice me,
chewing on her stuffed animal,
looking at me all the while,
trying to make her game look fun
when I know it isn't.

The peepers are loud
and I have the window open to hear them
while my dog looks at me
with the plush, eyeless cat in her mouth,
look, look what I have,
come try to take it,
you'd like it.

My father lost his father on the first night of Passover
when he was ten years old.
He died in an accident,
when the Fuller Brush tower collapsed.
My father became a small boy every year
quietly remembering that night.

My family is far
with my daughter a long flight away
and my other daughter in Florida with my mother
eating BBQ at the mall
and my husband off at a cousin of an in-law's house
eating vegetarian.
I went to the movies.

Some of the frogs yip or yeep,
some whistle,
some sound like they're blowing bubbles through a straw
in glasses of milk.
All of it is loud,
their reptilian Seder,
the order of the year.

I got a burger
after the movie
and there was a band playing
so loudly
I had to shout my order.
The singers yelled something
like get me out! Let me out!
I had my burger wrapped to go

and came home to the peepers
and the trilling
and my dog
now sleeping in my arms.

All traditions have been broken tonight,
no blue flowered dishes and red wine glasses
and matzo ball praise,
no gefilte fish skidding around the parsley garnished plates.
No children find hidden matzo,
no endless songs where we only know a few of the words
and hum and stumble through them just the same.
I think of my father's quiet
and miss my own father,

Elijah, this is your chance.
Come have a glass of wine
before I close the window,
and go to bed.