We recline at a long, white-clothed table burdened with food. At either end are two serving platters of sacrificial bone, rebirth, bitterness, mortar, work, and enslavement. Adjacent to the platters kneel bowls of tears and a ghost’s goblet, waiting. The Matzah, ashamed of its unleavenedness, is veiled and hiding somewhere only thick glasses, hearing aids, and swollen knuckles know. My sister fidgets in her dress, and my cousins kick each other quietly under the table. In the kitchen the oven smells Kosher, and here it smells like a Nile of grape blood. I breathe deeply through my stuffy nose and begin chanting.