Ninth-grade bochurim would huddle in a corner, daring each other to make the plunge and ask Mordy a question

“It’s an avodah,” Mordy would say. “You have to have kavanah.”

Dovi’s eyebrows creased in concentration as he measured out 28 grams of coffee beans, imported from Gedeo Zone, Ethiopia, and inserted them into the grinder. He then turned to the kettle screeching on the stovetop. “The only kavanah I’m having,” he mumbled to no one, “is to not melt my hand off.”

Mordy always insisted on an actual kettle rather than any of the more modern heating apparatuses — “it needs to be a mevushal with all the hiddurim” — was his expression, and Dovi dutifully poured the boiling water over the freshly ground beans and watched the thick brown liquid trickle through the filter into the waiting thermos below.

He swiftly clamped on the cover and checked his watch. One thirty. Mordy’s flight landed at two and it took just under an hour to get to the airport. He envisioned Mordy and Gitty staggering over to the baggage carousel, lunging desperately after each black, unmarked duffel bag. Finally, they would feel satisfied enough to crack open the zipper, whereupon a pile of seforim would come tumbling out. Dovi had time, he knew, but not tons of it.

He grabbed the thermos, about to head out, then paused and raced down the stairs to the guestroom. He knocked lightly on the door.

“Hey, come on in!” Zeidy sounded cheerful albeit a bit drowsy. Dovi pushed the door open. Zeidy was sitting up in bed, reading From Newton to Nuclear — Physics through the Ages.

“Hi Zeidy, just checking in on you. I’m about to head to the airport to pick up Mordy and Gitty. Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”

“Ah Dovi, I’m doing fine. Still full from that oatmeal you made me for breakfast. Go on to the airport. Your old Zeidy will be just dandy.”

Dovi smiled, reached out and gave his grandfather a quick shoulder rub, then hurried back up the stairs and straight toward the front door, which he flung open wide. The blast of spring air blended with the strong scent of coffee made for a surreal déjà vu experience. There were still some patches of snow on the ground, just like there had been for last year’s drive to the airport. He slid into his car, carefully put the thermos in the cupholder, and pulled into reverse.

The curbs were running with melted snow as Dovi picked up speed and turned onto the thoroughfare that would take him to the highway. He opened the windows a touch, just to feel the rush of wind as he swung through the exit and glided into the left lane. Now he was on his way and had the freedom to think.

Mordy was coming! Dovi had long gotten used to the fact that Pesach was the only time they’d see each other, and he always made sure to maximize every moment of it. Together they’d learn in the kollel that Dovi wouldn’t dare enter unshielded by Mordy. He’d sit there, smug and proud as he wore a spiffy wine-colored cardigan in the sea of black and white. Contemporaries would shuffle over and wish his brother a shalom aleichem. Then they’d turn to Dovi. “Ah, der brudder!” they would smile and offer a warm handshake. Mordy would wink at him the moment they moved on. Ninth-grade bochurim would huddle in a corner, daring each other to make the plunge and ask Mordy a question.

Although Dovi had no way of confirming it, he was certain that they were all agape that this sharp-looking 22-year-old who struggled to get through a line of gemara was just one year younger than the legendary illui they all adulated. But Dovi didn’t care. It was the highlight of his year, the annual breath of spirituality in a life that was a whirlwind of digits and stock symbols.