Clicking away, slamming doors in that robe of Ephod, the Wise One tipped his kipa.
I told the tale anyhow.
Yaroset, secondhand, still tastes sweet.
But when that friend,
Refused to share the Matzoh Ball Soup,
Recipe of our ancestors,
I walked away spitting horseradish,
through bitter teeth.
I did not stop to ask why, carrying my Chametz on my back like an old woman carrying her bundle of tinder.
Way down in Egypt land.