Though her memory doesn't cooperate any longer, I persist. "Mom -- do I use walnuts or almonds, red delicious or honey crisp apples? Should I use red wine or white?" It is Passover; time to make haroset, a sweet mixture of apples, nuts, and spices to recognize the hardships of slavery and the sweetness of freedom.
I've dissected these stories, written and rewritten them, sat with them, prayed with and for them. I've thought about how it's going to affect my family, my mother more than anyone. These are her secrets I'm revealing, her shame, that silence that has eaten through us like gangrene. This silence killed my brother.