Memory is flawed. Images and details surface in the mind and, from those bits, a composite of a past experience emerges. Sometimes the memory is blurred, lost in a haze of maybe’s that the passage of time has largely swallowed. Siblings central to a family happening may have different recollections of how an event unfolded — unique perspectives and points of view on the same experience, even though all were present and participating. For sure, memory is not an exact science.
Some readers may recall Akira Kurosawa’s iconic 1950 film, “Rashomon,” in which a samurai is murdered in a forest, and various witnesses provide alternative and contradictory versions of the incident. It is a plot device, often used in storytelling.
On the other hand, some memories startle with vividness, each aspect electric in its detail — who was there, what you were wearing, who said what. The gatherings of families for holidays and celebrations embody that effect, yet none perhaps with more coherence than April’s family seder when, let’s say, Aunt Eva’s gefilte fish is followed by Aunt Rosie’s brisket and Aunt Harriet’s tzimmes, and where Uncle Bruce’s honey wine emerges triumphant from a brief aging in the wine cellar to be mixed with seltzer for a spritzer like none other. Tipsy teens drunk on it come to mind. These details I recall from decades of Seders in my own house.
Perhaps these suggestions are bringing forth memories long buried in your own past, some with astonishing clarity.
As I revisit the years of Seders held in the dining room of our house, my father presiding, children, grandchildren and siblings all present at a dining table extending like a stretch limo clear into the entry hall that separated the formal dining room from the living room. I recall lighthearted moments at that table: A knock at the door just as Elijah’s cup was raised; various pets adding a chorus of sounds at the start of the singing; boyfriends one year never to be seen again — succeeded by others the next. Moments, too, that touch us — one of the youngsters nervously reciting the four questions for the first time. [Note, this president likely holds the world’s record for that task given to the youngest child — recitation year after year until my freshman year in college.]
As dear as I hold those memories of Seders past, one transcends them all: An unfilled place at the head of the table the year my father died created an emptiness within me that family, close friends, and ritual togetherness struggled to fill. My husband had spent quite some time preparing to lead the ceremony, yet I found it hard to focus on the current Seder, lost in what had been, the narrator’s voice just an echo of the familiar story of how the Jews, newly released from bondage, had raced across the land to the sea, Pharaoh’s soldiers in pursuit. As he held the Seder plate aloft, pointing out the symbols of spring and a fresh start of freedom for the Jewish people, all present, except one, were engaged in the retelling. You see, my father and I had a little interplay every year at the end of the ceremony and, no matter how foolish it may sound today, how formal it seemed even then, I would wait for it and savor the moment when it came. I would not hear it this year.
As the Seder ceremony drew close to ending, suddenly, I sensed an unexpected quiet…no prayers, no singing, no idle chatter. Stillness. I glanced up questioningly at my husband’s place at the table — lost in reverie, what had I missed? — and then, catching the glint in his eye, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, I heard the words “Daughter, you may serve the festive meal.” My father’s words. There, at that moment, I felt his presence. And my husband knew I would. And all was right.
I hope your Seder this year will be a memorable event, one you will carry with you wherever you are, wherever you go. Remember, it’s not always the grand gesture that triggers a profound effect. Often it is a commonplace moment that becomes a powerful experience, a treasured memory.
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