Sitting next to her at the seder table.

Rationing glances at her face,

scrunched up while her tongue

stumbles over the Hebrew.

Her eyes sparkle

As she dances through the kitchen

with the macaroons,

Vibrantly murmuring 'Dayenu'

On repeat.

Or smiling elvishly

as she calls for the Third Cup,

clumsily tipping Manischewitz into her glass,

The liquid spinning at the brim.

'No skipping'

she tells Uncle Ethan,

flipping the Haggadah to page 1.

The tools of the night include:

Her flashing wizard wand

A keyboard to bring on the music

A block of tofu – a vegetarian's lamb

And a few extra cups of that "juice of the vine."

Running of her theatre sheen –

the late hours only spur the gliding girl to graceful speed,

at peace in the cornered chaos

she hosts with ease and easy forgetfulness.

Yet she carries the torch through the night

– A bold man of men –

climbing the rungs of bravery,

stoking the fire of madness,

a ferocious Pesach mastermind.

A woman of power,

And a girl of idyllic evenings,

Running on pulsing adrenaline

And alcohol,

Fading daylight cutting through

the windows to play on her chestnut hair.

Childhood photos clutter the room,

Perching on the edge of overflowing bookshelves,

Depicting purple headbands

And birthday candles.

I do the math on every picture,

quickly aligning my own timeline by hers.

Throughout the night I decompose

from imposter to welcome inhabitant,

Newly purring cat,

And constant hugs from all sides.

A night not to be missed, I recall,

As I twist the late hours into new sunrise.

While others still sleep,

we stay to watch the night ride on.