Shoshannah
Do you remembering the first Passover you invited me to
when your cousin Toby tricked me into eating gefilte fish?
It was grey and slippery, but I forced each terrible morsel
down, because I was terrified of offending your savta,
especially since you two were apparently gossiping
about me when you drove her to bridge on Sundays.
When I finished the last bite, your Uncle David,
the personal trainer, who kept trying to sell me on
Muscle Milk and a gym membership, slapped me
on the back so hard my glasses fell off and said I had
“real chutzpah.”
Although that semester, you had given up
the kosher lifestyle when you started eating bacon burgers
and making out with a gentile, you smiled at my
new badge of honor.
“You’re Jew Approved,” you said and I almost snorted
elderberry Manischewitz out of my nose, but I’m glad I didn’t
because I would have ruined the moment
when you squeezed my hand under the table.