I try to pull myself together, when I hear it. Somebody outside, strains of song. I open the window and a voice carries inside. “Mah nishtanah halaylah hazeh, halaylah hazeh…”
“Can’t we just cancel Pesach this year?” she asked me.
I would’ve laughed, if I weren’t almost in tears.
It was two weeks into COVID, and only a handful of us essential workers were still coming into the nursing home, stretching ourselves thin to fill huge gaps.
Fear stalked the hallways. A million-and-one new safety considerations, which no one could wrap their head around. As activity director, I was trying desperately to keep things going while the legislation poured in — six-feet distance, masks in public places, full lockdown.
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