Panting
By Chaya Zwiebel
The carpeted staircase seems as long as the Sea that Moses split. I retrieve the stray socks that had fallen on my way upstairs from the laundry room. There is only one more load of laundry, only one more child who needs a bath, and only one more ceiling fan to dust. After weeks of cleaning and organizing, I am almost done. My bones creak. The balls of my feet cracked like charcoal on a grill. I feel like an abused mop, but at least this old house sparkles like new. The living room is perfumed with the scent of Lysol. I heave in satisfaction as I place the last silver candlestick on the mantel, sparkling like glitter. A white table cloth, a wedding present given to me decades ago, hides the worn table underneath. Thirteen chairs of various sizes and colors tuck into the table, ready to be used after the moon rises in full glory. Later today, I will take out the Seder plates, Hagaddahs, and Matza bags. I wash my hands, still sticky with silver polish, in the bathroom sink. I sweep one more time. There is not a surface that can’t be eaten off of.
The cooking will have to begin now, although my calendar reminds me that I had penciled it for the previous Wednesday. It will all be ready for the Seder, if nobody interrupts me for the next six hours, but the food will not be nearly as succulent as she makes it. My mother never gave me the opportunity to cook like I allowed my kids to do.
“When is she coming?” Hinda asks after the broom clatters to the floor. It seems as if Hinda’s hair absorbed the grease of the oven she finished sweeping behind this morning.
“I don’t know.” Before it happened, she would be home days in advance. Back then the kitchen counter was a black granite as shimmery as diamonds. Even if it looked like the cracked white Formica we have in this house, she would have smiled as if it was a beautiful bed of roses. Aesthetics never mattered to her as much as it does to me. Back then, after a night of decluttering, I would stumble into the kitchen bleary-eyed and watch her dance rhythmically to the throbbing music she loved. Her magical hands would be preparing dozens of almond cakes, macaroons, and pineapple chicken. I would finish organizing the last vestiges of the boy’s winter closet as the tangy smell of her roast would waft in. None of her siblings would get too close to the kitchen; it was her domain. If they did, she scowled as she handed them a cookie made of almond meal, eggs, and sugar, an all-time Pesach favorite. By the time the sun was hottest, the oven would turn off and the house would start to cool down in anticipation of the night ahead.
“You’re sure she’s coming, right?” Hinda whispers, as if asking too loud would scare her away.
“She’s coming,” I say, a bit too fiercely. If I say something, it will become a reality. I teach that to my mentees. I tell them that you just have to state what you need, thank Hashem in advance, and He will listen. As a mentor to many, I need to practice what I preach. Thank you, Hashem, in advance, for making her come. I close my eyes and picture her as a child. The serious look in her eyes. The neat braids in her hair. She was so mature, so responsible, so kind, and smart. How I long to see the same innocent face staring back at me.
“You think she will wear… you know…” Hinda’s question breaks through my reverie.
Clothing. It may seem superficial, but clothing tells the story of a person’s neshama. Before she turned eighteen, Mushka’s clothing told the story of the daughter I knew her to be, a Bat Yisrael. Her shirts were neutral colored, covered her collar-bone, with sleeves well past her elbows. Her skirts weren’t too form fitting and covered her knees. What one wears outside is what one wants others to know about them. I was a good role model. Always classy and modest. It was so perfect when she was a teenager, sometimes we even shared clothing.
I noticed when it happened right away. The tiny deviances. A red skirt. Sandals. A dress that didn’t cover her knees when she sat down. Right away, I knew there was something off. Maybe if I had done something then, she wouldn’t be the way she is now. Who knows what caused her to be… Where did I go wrong?
“I don’t know,” I state simply, looking down at my navy and white striped calf-length skirt. I need to change into my other skirt when I’m done cooking. This skirt is strictly for housework.
I used to know exactly what she wore every day. I thought I knew her, too. I thought that I could help her embrace her feminine side. When she was nineteen, I brought her to the makeup saleslady who sold the finest quality cosmetics in Brooklyn. It was my treat for her birthday. She only bought natural colors and I was glad because it was modest. I thought I was encouraging her to develop her inner princess. I would implore her to wear heels, complementing her straight black skirts, but she balked at that. She didn’t have Hinda’s flawless figure or brushed olive skin, but her deep blue eyes made up for the extra weight she carried. In fact, in one way or another, she always made up for any minute flaws she may have possessed. Even when she insisted on only wearing Air Jodans like a shvartze.
I don’t like it that Hinda is worried now. It’s too much for her. Hinda adored Mushka growing up. She wanted to be just like her; quick, intelligent, humorous. Hinda takes her time to get a sense of her world. She would need Mushka’s help every night to go over hours of homework just to pass school with C’s and D’s. Mushka sat night after night, legs crossed, with stacks of paper, pencils in every color, and the determination of a mountain climber. She never asked for anything in return, not even a thank you.
“Mommy, if I offer to lend her my skirt, do you think she’d get mad?”
That’s my Hinda; sensitive, thoughtful, and aware of how a girl dignifies herself. When a girl is modest and treats her body with respect, she will attract a husband who will treat her with respect. It’s the way the world works.
“Let’s see how she comes and try to indirectly find out what she’s wearing to the Seder. Then, we will see. Ok?” Hinda nods at my advice with the maturity of a saint. I deliberately turn back to my cooking and sing a haunting Niggun. Mushka does not appreciate the music. You can’t dance to it. Hinda joins along, her voice harmonizing the chasm in my soul.
As I’m singing, I push away the image of my daughter, coming home to visit one day with half her head shaved like some punk. I swat away the memory of her first tattoo, defiant like graffiti on a museum’s wall, and the extra piercings. I sing louder as my mind reels with the memory of the dreaded phone calls from concerned family and neighbors, the whispers, the skinny jeans that caused her brothers’ eyes to pop.
I sing because with music, I can be in control. My voice hits every octave and slams every note.
I sing and cook for hours, Hinda peeling and cleaning around me, graceful as a baby swan. We belt out the melodies together. Music brings us on a spiritual journey through the proud tunes of our ancestors, the ones they sang while marching out of Egypt. We continue with sad melodies of the Destruction of the Holy Temple. We hum the compositions of great Rabbis and the strains of shepherds. With music, we are past, present and future.
As the sun begins its decent and Yom Tov is almost here, an engine sputters outside the pressed wood door. Hinda’s gaze drops down to her faded long sleeve t-shirt. I clear my throat, “Come on, Hinda, Mushka is here.”
“Look how frum I am!” Mushka grins as she pulls an iPhone out of her jeans to check the time, “An entire half hour before shkia!” I embrace her tightly, grabbing her naked biceps. They have grown more muscular and colorful since last year. Half her forearm taps my back; politely like a stranger. With her other sculpted arm, she motions something to her companion. The girl stops unloading the truck and beams, “Hi Mushka’s mom. It’s so wonderful to meet you! Mushka talks a lot about you.”
“Good things, I hope,” I quip and I’m grateful that the girl laughs. “Can I offer you anything to eat?” I don’t know how much this girl knows about our traditions. I don’t even know if she’s Jewish. I’m sure Mushka told her a little about Pesach, but what if she-
“Bubby’s chicken soup!” Mushka interrupts my train of thought.
“Oh, chicken soup…” I am flailing already, and she just arrived. “Um, I made chicken soup but it’s not ready yet. It’ll be delicious by the Seder tonight. I have some boiled eggs and a kugel for now.”
“Ugh, ma that’s just gross! Is there anything else to eat?”
“What would you like?” My voice sounds rusty, like a bike chain that hasn’t been used in a while. I clear my throat viciously. I wish I was as organized as her. I wish I had more food ready. And what about this girl? What is she going to eat?
“I want food, ma. Kugel isn’t food.”
“Cleaning took a bit longer than usual, but I have some chicken that will be ready soon.”
“Usual?” Mushka snorts. She turns to the girl, “Remind me to tell you the story of how I cleaned the entire house at seventeen and then my mom, two days postpartum, cleaned the entire kitchen again because I forgot to scrub a pipe under the sink.”
“It’s just what we do,” I defend myself, as the girl’s mouth drops open. She obviously was not prepared enough. “Pesach is one time where we don’t do things very rationally.”
Mushka snorts again. “None of it is rational, ma. Pesach is just the one holiday you are willing to admit as such.”
Hinda’s mouth opens and closes, opens, then finally closes again. Her sister’s comments clearly hurt her, but she won’t argue. I respond instead. This is my house and I don’t want Hinda to feel uncomfortable all weekend. Mushka is angry, but maybe her friend would understand, “We don’t do things because they make sense. We do it because we want a relationship with G-d. If your lover wanted something that you didn’t understand, wouldn’t you do it for them just because you love them? It’s the same thing here! Our minds may be too small to understand G-d’s will, but we do it out of our love for Him. That way, we create the most meaningful relationship of all.”
“I’ve got all the relationship I need. And my relationships make sense,” Mushka jibes. Then, she grabs her girl in a rough embrace, swings her red leather bag over her shoulder, and smiles- almost like she used to before it happened. “Love you, Mom. See you at the Seder.”
She walks a few steps towards our home, a home foreign to her like she is to me, and then turns around to Hinda, as if she forgot something, “Don’t worry, I’ll be wearing a skirt.”
THE END