Shehechianu

            Sweating like a squeezed knaidl, Abe sits on the patio and gazes across their patio and backyard. Cassie brings out two glasses of “August lemonade,” a new phrase that’s entered her lexicon. She sits on the floral, cushioned lounge chair beside him and he takes her hand. They sit and she comments on the azalea in the far right corner, the rhododendron in the left corner. “Are they new?” And about the dark wooden fence, “Was it always so dark?” And about the brick patio, “If I’d known we had such a beautiful patio out here, I’d have come out here ages ago!”

            In response, Abe smiles and nods. He’s quiet, the rhododendron and azaleas sparking a memory. Last April, the middle of Pesach. Hungry for lunch, he walked to the kitchen, but froze on the threshold. Then he spun around on cotton-socked toes so as to flee before Cassie spotted him. For if Cassie saw him, he would need to comment. And if he commented, she would suffer mortification—not so much for the violation itself, as for her not having recognized it as violation, as fundamental violation, as primal violation of the Torah-commanded holiday.

Into the den. While flipping newspaper pages that Pesach day, he berated himself for having waited in the car while letting Cassie shop alone that morning at Shop Rite. He’d meant well, following doctor’s orders to grant her as much independence as she could handle. At least he was driving her almost everywhere. Each time she was about to leave the house, Abe volunteered to be her chauffeur. “Don’t leave me all alone,” he’d whine,...