Noise. Confusion. Chaos. My very first Passover images are vivid decades later.
My mother and her sisters are jammed into the kitchen of Grandmom Goldberg's tiny house laughing, arguing, carrying strange foods to a groaning table set with grandmom's fraying lace tablecloth. The grown-ups say prayers we don't understand and let us drink sips of the sweet, sweet wine.
And always, always, the vague memory of being carried out to the car by my father during those early years because I am simply too exhausted to walk.
Primping. Fussing over hair and clothes. Debating about what constitutes "proper attire," by my mother's definition.
I am in those turbulent pre-teen/teen years and the family Seder has, by now, been moved to the home of an aunt in a newly developed post-war neighborhood that my grandmother couldn't pronounce.