On Passover eve, April 1987, the jacaranda trees are only hinting at the cloud of lavender that will quietly explode on the sidewalks and streets of Los Angeles come June. The men I know hate jacarandas for the sticky nectar that drips on their cars; the women plant them anyway. To look down streets lined with purple jacarandas is to be transported into a technicolor dream sequence.
My husband, my son, and I are driving through the City of Dreams in a periwinkle haze on our way to the home of family friends, where my mother will ladle out matzo-ball soup and my father will officiate at a truncated Seder, the traditional holiday meal, as he has for the past thirty years. My son, Zack, age four, is adorable in a white turtleneck and navy sailor suit. He is in his usual good spirits, though his health has noticeably deteriorated. The shadows under his bright eyes are skim-milk blue, and he hasn’t been able to run since February. This has meant the end of his favorite game, in which he hurtles toward me, grinning, to be swept up in my arms and whirled around, shrieking with pleasure. The game always ends in a hug and then begins again.
