Rockaway by Tara Ison

and washing dishes, rinsing out the soup can, everything soapy, slippery, gripping the can hard, remembers the jagged lip of the metal lid making its quick crescent slice, the well of blood into the gray dishwater, a sudden rich cloud of red brightening it all up.
    Lamb’s blood, the small sacrifice. She stands, watching, opens her mouth to cry, to call her mother or father to help, Mommy, Daddy, come see, come look, I need you , but then doesn’t. Mommy, Daddy, help me, it hurts . She just standsthere, quiet, still, watches the pretty red blossom and float until her mother comes in to pour herself the last of the wine and sees, says What did you do to yourself, Sarah? Go, go get yourself a Band-Aid, go on . A ridge of scar tissue, now, crudely healed. They should have taken me for stitches, she thinks. Why didn’t they take me for stitches?
    â€œBut I was just a kid, you know . . .” she finishes.
    â€œHow old were you?”
    â€œHmm?” She looks up at him.
    â€œWhen you did that? The seder?”
    â€œOh . . . nine, I guess? Maybe ten?”
    â€œWow.” He looks surprised.
    â€œSo, now I’ve done it every year since. The whole routine. I even do the Four Questions. And I wrap up a piece of matzoh and hide it for myself. Then I make my dad give me a dollar.”
    â€œYou’re kidding.” He shakes his head. “Wow,” he says again.
    â€œHey, I’m still the youngest child! That dollar is mine!” She laughs. “I know. It’s twisted. But that’s the tradition now. And once that kind of thing takes, it’s too late, right? You’re trapped. You’re stuck.”
    â€œNo, see, that’s not true. Traditions can change. They’re supposed to. They’re living things. Always evolving.”
    â€œOh, things’ve evolved,” she says, mock-assuring. “I’m a much better cook now. Chicken soup from scratch.”
    â€œNo, look, this year, you’re here. Right?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œSo Pesach is all new again for you, this way. You can appreciate it all over again, like it’s the first time. You gotta do that with everything. You can’t just move through life, we gotta recreate life at the same time. Be conscious of doing that, every single moment.”
    â€œOh my God, that is so exhausting.” She smiles at him, to soften the comment, then: “I’m kidding. I get it. You’re exactly right, this year was definitely different.” She waves vaguely at the house, at the family in the dining room.
    â€œAnd it’s good, right?”
    â€œSure. It’s been a blast.”
    â€œNo, I mean how’s it feel ? How’s it different on the inside ?” He touches his chest. “Like deeper, how?”
    She feels impatient. Exhausted, yes, ready for this whole evening to be over with and done. No more questions, please. “Like you said, change is good. This has been a good, conscious, evolving evening. Really. Thank you.” She picks up The Torah Anthology again. “It’s like you’re always lifting up rocks to see what’s crawling around,” she can’t resist adding.
    He looks at her, bewildered. “We’re just talking, here.”
    She flips pages of purification rituals. “You’re like those people on the beach that’re always prying open oysters because maybe maybe there’s that pearl inside.”
    â€œI am?”
    â€œOr a clam or mussel, like there’s going to be some little animal alive in there, but there never is. It’s just a shell.”
    â€œIs that what you’re scared of?”
    â€œI’m not scared. Where do you get that?” She feels fully exasperated now. What’s with him, all this interrogation? No, she realizes, she’s not exasperated. She feels embarrassed. Too seen-into, too revealed. Your own fault, Sarah, offering up so much personal stuff. No reason to tell him all