Not long after my grandmother died, I was a flower girl at my grandfather’s wedding to his new wife, Rose. I wore a Winnie-the-Pooh dress and a small corsage of roses (intentional?) along with my new step-cousins (Rose’s granddaughters), who, at five and eight years old, bookended me by just over a year in either direction.

There was trepidation on both ends of the aisle.

So soon after Molly’s gone.

At the wedding, Rose sat me down on the ottoman next to her.

“I want you to call me Mama.” She took my hand into her own soft veiny one. “Mama Rose. Just like my girls.”

Mama Rose seemed nice, but I missed my grandmother, and my dad was still so sad.

Already, I had only vague memories of Grandma Molly. Nebulous images, blurring with each passing day.

Strawberry blond hair whipped into a soft beehive.

Velvet furniture covered in plastic.

A musical photo cube.

Warm hands, and wet kisses on my forehead.

Grandma Molly and me

What I did remember was my grandfather’s new apartment, a spare one-bedroom, the velvet furniture in storage, a refrigerator with a jar of pickles and a container of deli mustard, although the musical picture cube remained.

I’d wind it again and again, the tinkling tune moving in time to photos of my grandparents. I studied Grandma’s smile, trying to remember. But I was young and remembering was hard.

A few months later, we celebrated our first Pesach (Passover) together as a blended family. An odd blending really, because my father barely knew Rose’s children, and no one seemed overly excited about the recent nuptials, except for Grandpa and Mama Rose.

My father wore a stiff smile as we crammed into the modest, but tastefully decorated Forest Hills, Queens apartment. Grandma Molly was no longer there—and someone new and unfamiliar sat beside Grandpa, doling out his food, touching his arm, laughing gently at his jokes.

I joined the cousins and my little brother at the “kiddie table”, a small card table pushed up against the new Formica dining set. We each had a small plate of matzah, a dollop of charoset, and a single round nugget of gefilte fish, with a half-filled glass of grape juice.

“What’s that?” I pointed to an extra small cup of grape juice on the table.

“It’s for Elijah,” said the younger of my two new cousins.

“Elijah only drinks wine,” said the older cousin. “That’s juice. Probably in case one of you spill.”

“I won’t spill,” said the younger one. She turned to me. “Will you?”

“No.” But suddenly that was beside the point. “Who’s Elijah?” I asked.

“You don’t know?” said the younger cousin, wide-eyed.

“Shush,” the older one said to her sister. “Elijah comes to every house on Passover and drinks wine. You have to leave the door open for him or he can’t get in.”

“He’s a ghost,” said the younger cousin.

“If he’s a ghost,” I said, “why can’t he move through doors?” I’d watched enough Casper and Scooby-Doo to know something was off.

“He’s not a ghost,” said the older cousin. “He’s a…proppit.”

“A puppet?” I said.

“No. A proppit. A Jewish person from olden times. He brings good luck, but only if you give him wine.”

“What if you forget?” I said.

“Then he won’t come,” said the older girl. “And you have bad luck.”

My heart clunked inside my chest. This was terrible. I didn’t remember Elijah from last year’s seder. Did we forget the wine? Had he skipped us?

I had an idea.

“What does he look like?” I asked.

“You can’t see him.” The older cousin shrugged.

“What do you think he looks like?”

“I guess if you could see him, he’d look like…Judah the Maccabee. Do you know him?”

“Yes.” So Elijah probably had long dark hair, armor, a shield. Maybe wore sandals like my Uncle Irving. I could work with this.

I ran over to my mother. “Where’s Elijah’s cup?”

She smiled. “Where did you hear about Elijah?”

I pointed to my new older cousin.

“I see.” She motioned to a silver cup that sat apart from Rose’s China dishes. “I think it’s this one.”

I assessed the cup. “More wine,” I ordered.

My mother raised an eyebrow but poured a few drops of Manischewitz.

“Good?”

I nodded.

“Do you want to open the door for him?”

“Yes, please.”

I pulled open the apartment door, then settled back into my folding chair.

“I opened the door for Elijah,” I announced to the cousins. “And I gave him more wine.”

Also? I was going to catch Elijah.

Well. Not actually, catch him, but…catch him in the act. As a little kid, I suspected I might see things grown-ups couldn’t. And if I saw Elijah, I’d make sure he stayed longer and drank extra wine.

He brings good luck.

I listened with half an ear as my grandfather read from the Maxwell House Haggadah, dipping my finger in grape juice with the pronouncement of each plague, nibbling matzah as the adults sang and prayed.

But I had my eye on the door.

Until the Blueberries Grow, illus. by Sally Walker

Every so often I checked Elijah’s cup.

Full.

Peeked out the apartment door.

Nothing.

Called down the hallway. “Eliiiiijaaaahhh.”

From across the hall, a dog barked.

Where was he?

“Does Elijah know Grandpa’s new address?” I whispered to my mother.

“I’m sure he does,” she said.

“Elijah has to go everywhere,” said the older cousin. “Even New Jersey.”

I needed to be patient. Except I wasn’t. Because the more time that went by without Elijah’s visit, the less likely we’d have good luck. And my family, my dad especially, needed good luck.

But the seder ended, dessert was served and Elijah’s cup was as full as ever.

“Maybe he doesn’t like the wine,” said the older cousin.

I slumped onto the couch, the rainbow cookie I’d snagged, no consolation.

My mother joined me. “How’s the cookie?”

“Elijah didn’t visit. He didn’t like the wine.”

“Who told you that?”

I pointed to the older cousin.

“He’s a proppit,” I said. “He goes everywhere but not here, and now we’ll have bad luck.”

“A proppit? Bad luck? Who told you—” Her eyes moved across the room to the older cousin, then back to me.

“First of all, it’s prophet. Someone who delivers an important message. And it’s not that Elijah brings good luck, it’s that Elijah’s visit means…” She held my hand. “Better times ahead. For all of us.”

“He wasn’t here,” I said. “I checked his cup. I even called out his name down the hallway.”

“He was here.”

“How do you know?”

She nodded across the room, towards my father. He sat with Grandpa and with Rose, talking, smiling, finally…laughing.

I ran over to my father and curled up beside him.

Perhaps Elijah had visited after all. Maybe he’d just had enough wine—maybe he’d already been to New Jersey.

But he’d slipped in, undetected as always, and offered us all a hint of a new beginning.

For more on Passover, visit PJ Library at Passover for Kids | PJ Library

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Mama Rose, Grandpa and Me.