Grandad’s Passover
I open Nana’s recipe book, find
the Passover recipe. Soak
currants, glace cherries, orange peel
in a Kiddush cup of sweet
kosher wine. Cream butter
and sugar, add six eggs one
by one, almond and matzo meal
with a teaspoon of cinnamon.
I want this magic-spell recipe to make
him remember.
We arrive at the nursing home
second night Seder. Grandad recognises
the box of matzah. Says ‘Pesach!’
as though wondering how he could forget.
He sings along to the Ma Nishtana,
reaches a hand to his head— yarmulke
in place. His right hand holds
the Kiddush cup, touch familiar.
He is offered a pickle.
‘Should be safe’ he says.
We give him a piece of Passover fruitcake.
I wait, wanting Nana’s recipe to trigger
taste-memory. Want him to recall
a sweetness only this cake can bring.
He takes a bite. And as my uncle wheels him
back to his room, he notices the photo
of Nana on the wall, says
‘that’s my darling wife’.
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