We yearn for Bobbie’s twinkling eyes, the naïveté of childhood, and a joy unsullied by disappointment at life not turning out exactly as you planned

IT is the ghosts that give me pause.

Back then, seating was tight, and it was cold. So cold. We sat in huge coats (Triple F.A.T. Goose™), and, loving brothers that we were, we fought for every inch of space. Our puffy sleeves, streaked with honey and shiny spots of fish sauce, pushed Rebbi’s devar Torah sheets between platters of roast and the Hoffman signature cranberry relish.

Once we figured out turns, we told our enthralled audience how the letters of “succah” are a remez for each kosher model. We felt our mother’s silent encouragement as we muddled through and heard Ta’s vocal pride when we made it to the end of the page.

And under the warmth of Bobbie’s adoring gaze, we were cozy. We sang “Atah Bechartanu” and joined the block in a rousing rendition of “Harachaman Hu Yakim Lanu.”

My parents’ succah is bigger now. Succos is more convenient. The timer turns the lights on and off at proper intervals, we’ve figured out how to bring in the dishes safely (Tatty sometimes even lets us eat on plastic these days). The vertlach are more sophisticated, fine wine is poured into stemware, and we usually sit in our shirtsleeves.

And we look for the ghosts. We yearn for Bobbie’s twinkling eyes, the naïveté of childhood, and a joy unsullied by disappointment at life not turning out exactly as you planned. The nostalgia comes thick and fast. The strawberry shortcake that ended up in the oven, the esrog I dropped on the first day before davening, the simple neighbor who carried his lulav to shul on Shabbos, proudly declaring that the eiruv was fine.