Miracles do happen.
One happened just yesterday.
After searching in vain for my Passover recipe books, folders.
Two consecutive April holidays rolling by after our move.
Without my tried, trusted catalogue of dishes.
The absence forcing me to resurrect
old faithfuls from memos, scraps.
To add contemporary cakes, kugels to the menu.
I made do. It’s true.
But, a little melancholy set in each March.
Buying matzo meal and kosher chocolate.
By the second calendar cycle,
I resigned myself to the loss.
Just before relocation to our new house,
I insisted on having a last celebration in the old.
Against realtor’s advice.
So, I had my handwritten instructions and my books.
But, then, poof, they vanished.
Had they been thrown away?
Were they hidden somewhere in a pile?
Had someone eyed and pilfered them?
Or most outlandishly, had a ghost, a suggestion by a neighbor,
snatched them away?
I lamented, groaned, wished for my papers to appear.
But nothing.
Not a sign.
Not a clue.
Until yesterday.
When, crash, bang, the sound of shattering glass.
What wreckage had visited our basement storage room?
But there, in full view, was the box with my reservoir of information as though delivered from on high.
It mattered not that the box was concealed beyond reach.
That all the shelves toppled from outside vibrations of a power washer.
That liqueurs, wines, vinegars fell, smashed.
That the shelving unit severed.
That the room smelled of anise and Malbec.
That guests were arriving soon for dinner amid the disarray.
What mattered were my recipes, and those my mother gave me, surrendered with a thunderous racket.
Becoming applause, ovations to my ears.
A love letter from the universe.
A message.
Never give up hope.
Lynn Benjamin
October 21, 2021