reflections on my grandmother

It's near the end of Passover. It's near the end of Passover, and a week short of the one-year anniversary of my grandmother's death. How fitting that I was in the kitchen, making a meal when these reflections came to me.

My grandmother was a woman who wasn't good at doing anything small. When she gave gifts to her grandchildren, they were far too generous. When she yelled at my grandfather, everyone could hear it. When she made a big meal, it was huge. When she had an opinion, well, you get the idea.

One of the "last" memories I have of my grandmother goes back six years. In the Spring of 2005, I attended the last Passover seder I ever got to attend with her (and the last I've attended). With me and Kyle in from Michigan and my sister and a friend in from college as well as a cousin in from Cincinnati, it was a typical seder in the Gould household. As the conversation escalated into insanity and odder and odder topics were broached, the apex of the meal was reached with the exposure of several people's piercings at the table. My grandfather sat at his end of the table, shaking his head and chuckling (as is his wont). My grandmother, however, sat at her end, laughing a full-throated laugh and exulting in the spectacle over which she was presiding, completely in her element. If that's the memory that I carry of her the rest of my life, it'll be fine by me.

Incidentally, the only part of the seder that I actually remember in Hebrew? Baruch atah Adonai eloheynu melech ha-olam bo-ray p'ree ha-gafen. Feel free to run that through your translator of choice.