It used to be different.
All of us together around the table,
my grandparents, Mrs. Li, Mr. Cohen,
Jordan’s family, people from temple
and the shops on Main Street,
my parent’s friends.
I helped my mom bake challah,
and on warm days we would
set it out to rise in the sun.
The past few months
have been just the three of us,
and sometimes Mrs. Hershkowitz and Buddy.
We usually have pizza now,
and sometimes my grandfather
will bring challah from the bakery
if he can get there on time.
Tonight, he gets the best kind,
long loaves with
toasted poppy seeds.
We light the candles,
and he blesses us,
puts some dollar bills
into the tzedakah box,
saving money for those in need.
We sing out the prayers,
and I see my father moving his lips
but no sound coming out.
It’s been a long time since I’ve heard his voice
say any kind of prayer,
and here, without a thought,
my body and mind remember
the words to bless and welcome in the Sabbath.
I say them out loud, my regular voice, alive.
They look at me, and my stomach rumbles, and then I tear the biggest
piece of challah I can, dip it into a pool of honey,
and shove it into my mouth.
My father lifts the challah,
breaks it in half like he’s the Incredible Hulk,
and throws the other half to my grandfather,
and we see who can shove the most challah
into their mouth at once.