For J, G and M
Sitting at intervals on the porch,
we’re masked,
though still a circle, a family
passing challahBraided egg bread eaten on Shabbat and holidays. Reminiscent of bread eaten by Priests in the Temple, of manna in the desert, and sustenance in general. Plural: Hallot, pre-sliced.
No tearing the bread,
no fingering shiny crust before sharing.
The youngest invents a game,
grasps the top page from a colorful stack
at her father’s knee.
Rounding the table,
she slaps it on her mother’s lap.
Returns.
Selects a square of sky-blue,
a gift for me.
Returns.
Chooses peach for one sister,
jade green for another,
orange for her grandfather.
Is she mapping Sabbath?
Weaving us in?
Each departure/arrival,
each circuit of the table
is met with cheers.
Does she realize we’re smiling? I ask.
The muscles of our cheeks and lips
are hidden.
Yes! declares the oldest child.
She sees the lines
of kindness around our eyes.
