Fifteen Faces

My fifteen children sit around the table, 

waiting for their father to cut the challah. 

He cuts two pieces: 

one for himself, and one for me.

Then, one piece of bread at a time, 

the line begins. 

The first, to our eldest daughter, 

then down the row, age by age. 

One child passes to the sibling next in line,

without a word— 

knowing their own piece is yet to come.

Until finally, 

the youngest, 

in her highchair beside her father, 

receives her piece of bread. 

She has waited longest, the most patient of all.

When a child is missing from the table— 

perhaps away from home, or sick in bed— 

their piece is cut in its rightful order.

It sits, waiting.

My husband would break our bread,

with intention and love, 

For our fifteen children, held equally.