My Hanukkah bingo card.
A simple matrix of 25 boxes
But instead of B3 and N41 and O69
We have words.

Maccabees
Kislev
Dreidel
Latkes

All of a sudden, I’m 8 years old
Sitting next to Grandma Sophie
In the huge bingo hall filled to the edges
With rows of long tables and folding chairs

At each seat a deceptively quiet competitor
Who would bite your head off for winning.
In my excitement I shout “Bingo!”
When it wasn’t my turn. (I don’t know why).

Hundreds of eyes surround me
Spewing venom and fury
For they had cleared their cards
And had to start all over again at $1 per card.
I had shamed myself and worse – my grandmother.

But on this night
Our bingo barker calls the word Tradition
And a chorus sings out from
Fiddler on the Roof.

Temple.
“Whaaaat?” someone screeches
For the room acoustics aren’t good
And the leader is soft-spoken.

“Whaddid he say?” “Ethel?” “Nipple?”
Like noisy octogenarians
Without hearing aids
Each word an opportunity to kvetch.

Oil.
“Earl?” “What’s earl?” “He said oil. Get fitted!”
Torah.
“Why is that on the card? Hanukkah’s not in the Torah!”

Even my non-Jewish husband
Gets into the competitive spirit.
“C’mon ‘lamp’!”
“Gimme a ‘gimel’!”

Beryl meekly raises her hand to
Quietly whisper “bingo.”
“Don’t wipe your cards,” Naomi cautions loudly.
“We gotta check it first!”

Such a difference 50 years later
The shame has dissolved
This time I’m surrounded
By menorahs
And light
And laughter.