Never Let Go
Until one memorable seder, I wondered how much Yiddishkeit my sons had retained
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
I light the candles that my husband has prepared for me in delicate ceramic candlesticks from a groovy art fair in Tel Aviv. I say the blessings for Passover, and add the shehecheyanu, thank you G-d, for bringing us to this season.
“Amen!” my three boys-now-men respond, and hug me from all sides, all 6’4 times-three-of-them, all hundreds-of-pounds-of-them. They have traveled far to spend the holiday with my new husband and me in Maine, where we live. Their embraces warm my heart as they envelop me, the way I used to envelop them.
I don’t want them to let me go. I have waited so long for this. This season. This moment. This blessing.
“Let’s get going!” my husband calls out, impatient. He takes a seat at the head of the table, the ba’al ha-bayit, the head of the household, who himself has herded six now-adult kids through innumerable Jewish holidays. He is not my sons’ father, but he loves them and they him. At 85, he might as well have been their saba or zayde. The boys are goofy with each other, playful wolf cubs in fully grown, hairy, and muscular bodies. “Yallah,” my husband calls, “let’s go!” They don’t listen, so I shoo them toward their seats, wary of any friction between the older and younger generations.
On the table, set with the “good” dishes atop my favorite bold-colored Marimekko-flowered tablecloth and turquoise napkins fanning out of the wine glasses, dozens of small plastic toy animals saved from my boys’ childhood seders are strewn around: green frogs with dots; locusts with long, skinny hind legs; multicolored beetles with shiny shells. Scattered among them: round, white fuzzy balls—the hail of the ten plagues—and party-favor sunglasses, for the darkness that G-d sent to punish the Pharaoh, but really the Egyptians, for refusing to let us go.
My husband pours the first cup of wine and recites the blessings in his sing-song, former cantor voice.
“Amen!” The boys respond in raucous delight as he shakes his head at their rowdiness, while I look for the sign of a smile on his face. Loud and gregarious, they are clearly the offspring of my former husband and me. Here they are, all us, all me, I think. I notice how much I miss this playful spirit, the natural joyousness of their company.
We flip to the Four Questions in the Haggadah and that’s when it happens: in a seamless, organic shift, my boys, who eat lardons on their pizza and cheese on their burgers, assume the role of leaders. They take turns reciting passages, delegating readings to the rest of us, enunciating the Hebrew with eloquence and confidence, knowing the melodies, the order, the seder. The shift from the oldest showing the way to the youngest assuming responsibility is as natural as the sun setting in the west and rising in the east. My cheeks flush with emotion. I kvell in a big, sappy way. This moment, I think. Don’t ever let it go.
I steal glances at my husband across the table, wondering if he minds that the wolf-cubs-turned-roaring-lions are stealing the show, dictating the pace, taking his place. But he looks content, happy even, following along, taking his turns, sipping his wine while leaning to the left, as we do.
L’dor vador, I think. From generation to generation. I had wondered if the Yiddishkeit from their day-school upbringing had stuck. I had worried that I hadn’t instilled a love of Jewish traditions in my sons, that they couldn’t be bothered. But our Passover seder proved me wrong. Something wonderful has transferred to my boys-now-men, and they own it, express it, and enjoy it in their own, ebullient ways.
Don’t ever let it go, I want to tell them. Don’t ever let it go.
Nina B. Lichtenstein (PhD, MFA) is a native of Oslo, Norway and also a U.S. and Israeli citizen. She is the founder and director of Maine Writers Studio and co-founder/co-editor of In a Flash Lit Mag. Her work has appeared in Tablet Magazine, Kveller, The Forward, Washington Post and HuffPo, among other places, and has essays in three anthologies. She is the author of Sephardic Women Writers: Out of North Africa (Gaon Books, 2017) and her memoir, Body: My Life in Parts, is forthcoming from Vine Leaves Press in May 2025. She is on Substack at "The Viking Jewess and Other Curiosities."
Instagram: @vikingjewess
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
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This is beautiful. The handing down from generation to generation a history of a people, the blending of the families. Lucky mamala.