Spills of Yesteryear

The grape juice stain is 31 years old this Pesach. It’s no longer purple; instead, it’s a faded brown. I remember clearly when it happened, how my cousin was scolded for knocking over her goblet, how I made her smile by pointing out that the spill covered the page of makas dam, the plague of blood – that if she had to spill on my haggadah, that was the right page to choose. I remember thinking way back then, as I sat ramrod straight in my chair (because that was how you sat at Zaidy’s table), that I almost liked the spill, because I knew even then that every time I looked at it, I’d remember this seder, the one when I was finally old enough to join my grandparents on my own. Indeed, 31 years later, when I open the small, illustrated haggadah, I can hear within the rustling of the pages the voice of my Zaidy, whose own story of exodus added haunting harmony to the words contained within these pages. I can once again feel the stiffness of my starched new dress, the cool touch of pearls around my throat – my first strand, a gift from my grandmother – the slight discomfort of new patent leather shoes digging into my Italian-knit socks. I’m back there, but I’m also here, surrounded by a new generation of small faces creating their own memories. And as the first goblet of grape juice is knocked over by small hands, and a hushed chorus of sighs accompanies my father’s –their Zaidy’s – recitation, it is that recollection that allows me to smile and recognize the magical power of the memories in the making.