A Jew does not go hungry on Pesach in New York City.
After not one, but three offers for help,
They accept my applications,
No proof needed.
Background check based on sheer love,
bottomline belief,
and heartfelt honor.
I amass grocery checks to be cashed,
a lungs-worth of a cow,
8 cornish hens,
and airline-wrapped meals for the ganza mishpacha.
My neighbor texts: “I have some extra, left on your doorstep.”
No less than 12 boxes of eggs,
2 bags of apples,
and 5 huge whiskey jugs of juice appear near where I will soon greet Elijah,
to make sure no Jew goes hungry on the night we were redeemed.
How imperative that for at least one night, a Jew should feel rich,
As least while we contextualize the whole haggadah of our torture – lo aleinu –
how much we are loved – at least Divinely–
and – dayenu – the lot we now have in life.
As I well up in inner breath and gratitude, I think: “Why me?”
Wolfing down cow drenched in wine,
and Italian seasoned lush potatoes,
I read about a corner store in New Orleans, continuing on despite The Virus,
its regular patrons begging for a bag of chips,
a snack for their daughter,
something,
anything,
to keep the hunger away.
Why can’t the whole world live like a Jew lives on Pesach?
Surrounded by his brethren,
bending and swaying on the same seesaw;
I give, you take,
You give, I take.
You need, I have,
I need, you have.
If only.
If only every day was Pesach, and we were all brethren.
We would eat as much as we needed;
No proof needed,
No questions asked.
