Not by hand of God despite what the old scholars say, not by fiery messenger, nor by fashionable angel in fur and pearls. Not by matzo ball soup my grandmother carries in a pot in clumsy steps from the stove top to the table set for twenty, with each sway a stomp, each stomp a sway, broth spilling over the edges. Not by candlelight nor prayer, sorry nor psalm. Not by exodus nor fast because not by body, for Christ’s sake, but what body does—open to the world and all those peculiar smells—ground white fish, horseradish, salt, copper hand washing bowl, digging into me its thorns all the days of my life.
