C’mon, Grandpa, it will be sunset soon!
Alright, Etan, all right. He coughs, puts on his coat,
and we walk together away from Main Street
to our apartment building,
up the stairs,
down the hall.
I hold my grandfather’s hand
and open the door.
SURPRISE!
I feel his hand squeeze mine.
All around the table
are the faces of everyone we know,
the apartment packed,
the air filled
with all the voices,
smiles, and songs.
The table is laden with tinfoiled boxes of chocolate,
silver candlesticks,
baskets full of challah
and pandesal,
bowls of gefilte fish,
bowls of steaming rice,
dishes full of adobo,
platters piled with lumpia
circling around rich, red sauces;
steam rises from pans
full of brisket and vegetables,
Crock-Pots of corn soup,
and shining bowls of honey carrots.
Behind the table,
in tall chairs,
My mom and dad,
Mr. Cohen, Mrs. Li, Mr. Dimitri, Mrs. Hershkowitz,
and Lola,
and all around them their children,
their grandchildren,
talking and playing.
Mr. and Mrs. Agbayani beam
in fancy clothes,
and there, between them,
I see Malia,
in a purple dress,
a flower in her hair,
and a long, red scarf
wrapped all the way up
and over her eye.
She pulls me over,
hugs me,
then smiling,
she punches my shoulder,
whispers, We did it.
I smile.
She leans over.
See you tomorrow
at the Sitting Stones?
Yes, I say,
right after synagogue!