The conversation was joyful and funny, but something was bothering me. I couldn't stop thinking about the poached eggs.
We had all ordered our breakfasts at the same time. I got my Irish oatmeal, my daughter got her bagel and cream cheese, but the poached eggs? It seemed like they would never come. Every time a server would come near our table, I would arch my neck to see if they were carrying the poached eggs. Waiter after waiter walked by, only to deliver food to other patrons.
We were intent on doing what our Ashkenazi forebearers, who lived in inhospitably cold climates, could not do. We were intent on doing Sukkot the way the Talmud prescribes, meaning 24/7, including spending nights there.
I have finished my eight rounds of chemotherapy. I feel like someone coming to the end of a year of mourning, about to surrender the status of "mourner" and return to face the world without a label to describe my continuing internal struggle.