Page 5 - Harlem Pesach Companion 2021

stuff of lore. In high school and college, friends of mine would clamor for the chance to
come over for dinner, and my mom would never disappoint: multiple courses, wine
pairings, gorgeous linens, fresh flowers, incredible conversation. After dinner my mom
would hop over to my parents’ grand piano and my dad, a criminologist by day who also
happens to be a professional musician, would burst into song (in that particular way, for
even kids who are now adults, that is equal parts annoying and desperately charming).

My mom’s penchants for elaborate dinner parties are not from where she came. At some
point early on in their marriage, my mom became the inheritor of my dad’s family’s
genteel traditions: meticulous protocols for table setting, menu planning, and meal
service. While my mom has been the one to carry on traditions not natively hers, her
steadfast commitment has always made them feel authentic. Plus, she’s managed to add
her own flare, making them truly her own. As her decline has progressed, and she’s
become less able to host in the ways she once could, I’ve stepped in—a role I take as
seriously as my mom ever did. And Seder is not only no exception, for our family, it’s the
crown jewel of hosting.

At a certain point on that day in the ER three years ago, I went to relieve my dad so he
could go home to grab a few things. We had no idea how long we’d be there. I sat with
my mom for a while, and she seemed well, considering. Suddenly, I heard a voice
casually say: “Hey Meg.” I looked up, surprised to see my friend Rob, whose family has
lived around the corner from JCC Harlem for decades. He was also there taking care of
his mom. Seeing Rob was a strange comfort, but if we all had to be there, a supremely
welcome one. Hours went by as we waited for more tests. Then my mom, working very
hard to get the words out, turned to me and said: “I want to come to your Seder.” Your
Seder. Again, my gut seized. Whether she had intended to or not, she was initiating a
baton-passing that I was wholly unprepared for—even though it was a role I had already
stepped into some time ago.

And then, amidst this already pretty terrible day, I knew I’d also have the awful job of
calling to tell my older sister Laura, who has Down syndrome and loves family
celebrations more than anything, that Seder wasn’t happening. Laura was not at all
pleased, but seemed very accepting, one of the many things I deeply admire about her.
We hung up the phone, only for her to call me back minutes later: “PASSOVER
STARTS TOMORROW!” she exclaimed, triumphantly and indignantly. “IT SAYS IT
ON MY CALENDAR.” Calendars are a kind of religion for Laura, though of course her
Gregorian ones rarely recognize the concept of “erev,” so Laura will not either. It’s not
an issue of her ability to understand it; it’s that she refuses to. (I come from a relentless
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