Waiting for Eliyahu

My kitchen, transformed by contact paper and sink inserts, energized me. I’d experienced many Yamim Tovim before, and I’d spent many a season scrubbing, but never had I sat at my own Seder, our Seder: the long table set with all the wedding gifts we’d never used; my husband in a kittel arranging pillows by his seat; the girls bouncing on their chairs; my son, pompous in his suit and tie, fumbling around a brimming becher to turn the pages of his Haggadah.

I didn’t use a Haggadah with commentary at that Seder; I didn’t need to. Reading the text from my machzor, I saw the story with the freshness of my children’s eyes. We were slaves to Pharaoh in Mitzrayim and then Hashem took us out with a strong Hand and great miracles. We asked the questions that seemed so novel this year. “Do you know how many Makkos there were?” “Then what did Pharoh say?” “And what did Hashem do to the Yam Suf?”

The children called out the answers delightedly, and then ran off to search for the afikomen, gleefully pulling at my husband’s kittel and throwing the cushions off the couch.

I wanted them to stay up all night, to sing Baruch HaMakom, each Dayeinu, Chad Gadya. To dip pinkies into silver cups of grape juice and fill their plates with the drops — and then, when they thought no one was looking, lick their fingers.