One of my uncles cleared his throat in bass, regretted this promised
speech, and slumped into his chair. They all eyed my father, the oldest
and most experienced among them. But he kept mum.
They sat there for a while. My father tore apart the shutters and
squinted in a futile effort to discern something in the gloom. The
streetlamps were few and far between and the tepid lighting of the
Seder barely brightened the room's far corners, let alone the alleyway.
The young ones dozed, bowing to soiled plates, their crumpled, stained,
cloth bibs bobbing in a sea of matzo crumbs.
"Hard-headed" - muttered my grandma and my mother assented
absentmindedly. Someone brought my grandma a glass of water. She dipped
her lips and crusty tongue and smacked. "Maybe we should call the
police" - ventured another uncle of mine, but we knew this was a
non-starter.
Dinah got divorced in her early twenties, abandoned by her husband. She
found refuge in her parents' home and cared for them and for those of
her siblings who still resided there. She scuffed the floor and
scrubbed the dishes. In the evenings, she settled down, legs crossed
beneath her wearily, gazing at life unfolding from the porch, puffing
at a medley of fidgety cigarettes.
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