Passover is my favorite holiday, so I was home this weekend, eating all the things I can't find in Alabama and sleeping in my old bedroom. We went to an old folks' Seder at my grandma's assisted living center, where my 95-year-old grandmother read the Four Questions by heart (because she couldn't read the 14-point font), and if was funny and sweet and sad. There are so many years behind the wall of complaints and sticky stories and refusals to speak about certain subjects. The night before, we had sat around laughing with close to twenty family members, wearing plague masks and stumbling to remember where we were in the Haggadah. I think in both cases it was the ceremony that propelled us, a performance of memory and identity, each of us the youngest kid at the table asking in a high voice the questions we already knew the answers to.