The lacy beige curtains were closed,
shrouding setting Sabbath sun.
Filtered light lit dust in flight,
refugees wandering the shaded living room.
Grandfather smoked his cigar.
Grandma baked the chicken with a nervous urgency
created by my surprise arrival.

I had been taking solo cross Bronx bus rides
since I was nine.
This day was my thirteenth birthday.

My prodigal father had scoffed at his
parents timidly proposed bar mitzvah.
My relieved mother praised her Christ
that she might dodge another family skirmish.
Grandfather had smoked his cigar.
Grandma had cried.

But I had determined to see them anyway.
This was my day.

“A sip of wine won’t hurt him.
He is a man today,”
Grandfather said, his smoke mixing
with the dust in the air.
Grandma draped her shawl,
crowning her gray hair.
Her hands danced with the candles.
A chicken leg sufficed for the sacred scrolls
I had never kissed.
Damp matzoh buttered, with salt
stood in for thick sliced challah.
Grandma cried into her smile.
Grandfather crushed his cigar in the
silver etched ash tray,
shuffled to the table,
placed his hands on my head,
mumbled a blessing for the closing of Sabbath
and my thirteenth birthday,
now dimly remembered,
smelling of cigar smoke,
baked chicken
and a secret.