My younger sister retreated to the corner, kneeling,
and snivelled inaudibly.
Mother just stood there, hands airborne, observing us in anxious
helplessness. She tried to utter something but it came out a feeble
"Don't you cry now, children" - my father glided from the adjacent room
and leaned a naked, bronze, shoulder on the doorframe, his face a sad
and distant mask.
"Why are they crying?" - he enquired no one in particular.
"Because we didn't sing the Passover hymns" - my mother countered in a
stifled voice.
Father knelt and cradled me in his arms. He embarked on a monotonous
Moroccan tune, until my tears subsided and, enraptured by the distant
melody, I fell silent. I joined him in a seamless medley of Passover
hymns, my voice lachrymose and screeching. My mother reverted to her
chores by the basin and Sima, my sister, absorbed it all in her usual
mousy taciturnity.
Father held my hand in his spacious, warm palm and led me back to the
table, chanting all the way and rhythmically pressing my flesh,
spurring me on to join him. We were the only two singing, now in hushed
voices, not to wake my grandpa. My sister climbed onto my father's
knee, her scalp safely ensconced in his moustache, head nodding to her
chest, eyelids undulating dreams.
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