One woman lit the candles,
and the others shifted slowly to create a circle
around the small flames.
They used their hands
to draw the light up towards their eyes,
and then, like magicians,
covered their eyes and sang the Hebrew
to announce the beginning of the day of
rest, Shabbos. To honor God.
At the amen, my Great Uncle,
He Who Brought Everyone Over,
led the unruly families into the big dining room,
the table now covered in a fresh white cloth,
and the good dishes in place.
He raised a glass of red wine
and called out the blessing to thank God:
the king of the universe, the maker of the vine,
the fruit and everything else on the table,
as well as the ship that got them to America,
Ellis Island, Worcester, Revere Beach,
the family, even the in-laws.
Finally silence.
And then from everyone, a big Awwwmain!
He said the prayer over the challah so fast and low
we had to strain to know when to say amen,
and then he passed around clumps of the sweet bread,
to give everyone a bite of immortality, he said.
He always had two breads, one with a little American flag
stuck into the crown that remained untouched
and then the one we pulled apart.
In a mélange of Russian and Yiddish and English
they offered gratitude to Uncle, The Rosh,
for getting them to America.
A miracle someone always said.
At this point, without discussion,
a miracle unto itself if you knew my family,
they became quiet. Then a sigh. A name.
And then another. A sigh. Then a toast. A tribute.
A blessing. A tradition.
Like breaking the glass at a wedding.
Finally, Uncle would clear his throat,
and from a mouth full of nicotine-stained teeth,
came the noisy laugh,
a sign to the women hovering in the kitchen
to bring in the food. He told everyone
they should fill themselves up to the top,
as they honored their good fortune and America.
The candles maintained the vigil.
Tradition.
