Why is this night different…
Standing in Aunt Nettie’s bayside apartment kitchen,
a faded blue Haggadah spread open,
wine stains from Seders past—
their purple splotches still visible,
peer up from the page,
marking words in strange squiggles
I cannot yet make out.
Slowly, she reads each of the Four Questions
I must soon recite by heart—
phrase by phrase,
she drills me.
My mouth goes mealy dry,
lips longing for the sweet taste
of melting chocolate
she stirs gently on the stove.
Why is this night different from all other nights?
That first question
sparks the ancient refrain,
each verse coupling to the next
like train cars,
the whistle still ringing—
not just from that first Seder table
where I reeled off the words
to smiles and praise,
but from a long journey:
Bare feet trekking through time,
gather matzah as manna,
that hasty provision
now mixed with herbs
bitter from many days.
We walked and wandered,
dipped and drenched
in waters both salty and sweet,
then and now.
Steps become stories,
stories become songs,
as the verses begin again…
On all other nights we… but tonight we…?
Memory shuttles me back
with this new knowing—
to ask once more
that innocent, ageless question
I first sang in sing-song:
Why is this night different…
Its fading echo draws me,
calls me again,
wraps me in its eternal embrace,
a freedom song still reverberating,
inviting me—and all of us—
to remember.
and retell
at this new Seder table round.
This poem is an excerpt from Section II Ritual and Reckoning, from the forthcoming poetic memoir entitled Memories-Fierce and Tender.Â
