The Book of Ruthie
She is there sitting on my shoulder. She is there every Passover scrunched in the folds of a damp dishtowel thrown over my shoulder. She is shrouded in the moist cloth between folds of fabric that hold my memories.
Does she hear my grandsons chopping the nuts? CHOP, CHOP, CHOP….
Can she see me measure the matzoth meal into the beaten egg whites?
Do the airy spheres of fluff that float in the soup resemble the ones...