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Lying in bed in my sister’s guest room, I notice the dressers on the other side of the room. They are painted white with a flowered decal on the top drawer. If I peel away the paint, I can peel away sixty years and see the maple dressers which stood in our apartment on Aldine Street in Newark. Even the mirror which stands above the smaller dresser is the same mirror, though the person staring back at me bears little resemblance to the young girl of bygone days.
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I never wondered where the WASPS were when I was growing up. It didn’t occur to me that a huge swath of Americana just wasn’t around. Even as an adult, I hardly noticed. New Jersey is such a diverse place that a group that wasn’t there was just not noted.
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It was because of Zayda that our family settled in Newark. He had arrived in America in 1907, so determined and desperate to succeed that he left his wife and three children, three plus the twins in utero, in Europe, with plans for them to follow when he could afford to pay their way. He had a miserable steerage class trip across the roiling Atlantic, and then moved in with family in Passaic. There was nothing wrong with Passaic but he had heard about fulfilling his dreams in a larger city, a tad further south. He was a builder by trade and his final migration was to that city, a place called Newark. His instincts told him that Newark was where he should be. And so it was.
Drowning in matzah crumbs, the heart, mind, and digestive system yearn for a fresh, dense, hot bagel.
Pandemic Pesachs too come to an end, even as pandemics themselves taunt and tease us with their endless evil iterations, known as variants. I used to think a variant was when my new black shoes didn’t match my new black dress. That was frustration at worst. These variants carry more evil designs on me, you, and the world. We now know too much about these things and never again will I go to the doctor and be relieved when she says, “It’s nothing. Just a virus.” Ha. What does she know?