Matzoh Denial

When my brother John asked me what he should bring for Passover, I went into Instant Matzoh Denial.  Passover?  That's so far away.  So I wrote back, "Let's talk about it when it gets closer."  Then I checked the calendar, something I like to do now and then, in case I get to cancel something I don't feel like doing.  Like Passover, which is soon, people. I better set the table. I better make some decisions.  Except, I want to stay in Instant Matzoh Denial.  Passover involves loved ones gathered around the table, fressing up a storm and editing the Haggadah down to the basics:  "On this night, we recline.  Let's eat."  But how can I do Passover without my dad?  Every year, he told the story of being a little boy at Passover and waiting to eat.  Patience in a restaurant was never his forte, and his boyhood memory always reminded me why.  In Brooklyn, his family and assorted relatives would read the entire Haggadah before anyone ate as much as a matzoh crumb.  It took hours.  Guests would faint from hunger.  Passover was an endurance test, not to mention, the source of my dad's lifelong impatience when it came to food.  At our Passovers, no one has to wait very long for anything.  No wonder he loved this holiday. I think I'll set a place for him anyway.  Something tells me I can squeeze in another chair.