Instead of sprinkling the shiny “mazel tov!” shaped confetti across the white tablecloth, Dovie dumped them out of the package, into a heap on the table, and tried spreading them out with his hands. He was seven, so this outcome wasn’t unexpected, but the Rosens were frantically preparing, and the job of confetti spreading fell to the youngest child.
The confettied table showed all the signs of a hastily organized Sunday morning vort. The mess of Shabbos was stuffed into closets and cabinets. A fresh tablecloth replaced the one stained with grape juice, soup, and crumbs. Pareve pastry dishes, and fruit platters from Mendy’s Bakery covered the table that spanned the long dining room from the front window to the kitchen door.
The bakery had engagement party platters down to a science. Chocolate eclairs and miniature cupcakes and blondies and sugar-free cookies and those terrible dark-chocolate, jelly-filled monstrosities, had been delivered early that morning and organized on the table, or else raised on tableclothed blocks, ensuring easy access to all items.
The dining room sat on the right side of the house. A long glass cabinet lined the far wall, stuffed with dishes, chalah knives, utensils, a silver menorah, Ayelet’s scrunchies, and three of Dovie’s toy cars because he didn’t want to carry them upstairs.
Rosen family photos scattered the other walls – mostly formal pictures from weddings, bat mitzvahs, and graduations, a sea of pale skin, brown hair, and hazel eyes. There was a small photo from Zahava’s bat mitzvah with Zahava and her mother. They put it up even...
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