Whispers in the wind

Two friends who joined us at last year’s seder are gone—
they passed away sometime during the year—and now
their chairs are empty, a reminder not everyone made it
through the sea and across the desert to freedom.

Some of us were too weak or too old to leave,
some couldn’t hear the sound of freedom calling,
some were too frail to heed it, while others stayed in
their beds, their eyes following us out the door,
their hearts breaking, their spirits part of our journey
even though they couldn’t come with us.

How many ghosts, I wonder, accompanied us into the desert
singing mi chomochah, adding their voices to ours
even though we couldn’t hear or see them, even though
we didn’t know they were there with us each step of the way,
offering encouragement in case we felt the urge to turn back?

I want to believe that the spirits of those we loved
return at this time of year to give us one more hug,
to sing one more song, to taste one more cup of wine.

I want to feel them sitting with us at our seder table
just as we used to sit together years ago, hands joined
in an invisible circle protecting us as we start off again
through the sea and make our way into the desert.

They are so close.
I can almost hear their voices
whispering in my ear. 

Or, wait,
is it just the wind?