First night of Passover preceded by a day of mist climbing out of the lake, zombie leftovers from yesterday’s unseasonable heat. Why is this night unlike all other nights? Chicken soup and matzoh balls and our friends toasting l’chaim on Zoom, computer parked at one end of the table keeping the spot warm for Elijah, who didn’t show. I push the words and they push me. There’s a space between the days that cracks wider and wider, a space in the weather, Plato’s chora, space invader, creeping up on us as in Beethoven’s late quartets, as passion takes form, away.