This is just to say how much I miss the tumult of a Shabbos day and a table full of guests – pretty platters at the center, extra place settings at the ends, stories of the week gone by sharing whatever space remains with our laughter over the old tales we’ve already told so many times we’ve softened them at the edges.
I also long for all of this – the warm hello, the chorus of amens, the piece of cake they take for the road, the warm goodbye, the checking they’ve left nothing behind, the let’s-do-this-again-soons, even the poignant click of the lock on the door before I head to the sink to ask the dishes: Wasn’t that nice? Wasn’t that fun?
But now, five corona months in, all I’m left at the sink with is a towel in one hand and in the other, regret for having swept so well beneath the table when they, the last of our guests, went home in early March. It would have been better, I think, if I had left a few of their crumbs behind just to help them find their way back, lest they forget after this plague has gone.