by Laura Ohlmann
Day of Atonement
We were sisters once, bound together
by your hands crafting plaits of braid in my hair,
wrapping them into buns.
We chased a rainbow down Stirling Road
towards University, where the intersections crossed
like a railway sign. This is it, she said. We pulled
into the Disalvo’s parking lot as the rainbow meditated
above us, an ethereal presence where we hoped Mom would
hop out, like gold before us.
It’s Yom Kippur now, but we still haven’t spoken.
How long will you cast me out?
I’ve tossed crumbs of bread down a river for you,
but they stay afloat, puffs of sourdough
disintegrate in the water, polluting the clear surface.
Afikomen
My father splits the baked square of matzo
and places it in the paper towel Mom has prepared
for him. They wrap it carefully, her cradling it like a demigod
in her spread palms, Dad curling the edges around the makeshift
bag. I cover my eyes and it’s a festival now, our stomachs are bloated,
full of charoset and matzo ball soup, and Dad whispers to my sisters
about the hiding location. Mom puts our dog into the master bedroom
or she’ll forage for it too. It’s Pesach and we’re honoring
our liberation from Egypt, my family celebrating
the search of afikomen, the money my father will
ceremoniously hand me, the dark chocolate macaroons
that Mom bought and the slipped shards of matzo that
I’ll secretly slide to Care under the bedroom door.
Laura Ohlmann is an MFA candidate at the University of Central Florida. She enjoys sleeping in her converted Honda Element and biking up mountains with her partner and dog.