Fic: The Four Questions
Title: The Four Questions
Fandom: Power Rangers SPD
Rating: G
Summary: Bridge Carson is five years old. Bridge Carson has just learned how to read. He was never ready for this.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never have been. Never will be. I don't even have any SPD toys.
Written for second_batgirl because she loves Passover. And I love Bridge, even if I don't love Passover as much as she does. She makes me enjoy it more than I otherwise would.
Bridge Carson was five years old. He was a big boy now, everybody kept saying so, and he had just learned how to read. That was a pretty big deal for him, this whole reading thing. Entire worlds he didn’t even know existed opened up for him. Understanding other people still eluded him, to his seeming eternal frustration, but at least he could see the world without seeing all the people in it.
But as his mother told him, with new talents came new responsibilities. He had found his words, both spoken and written, and now he was finally old enough to take over reading the one thing he really didn’t want to read. Bridge Carson was now in charge of reading the four questions at Bubbe’s Passover Seder.
It was the last thing he wanted to do. Passover was a hard holiday as it was. He loved spending time with his family, but the Seder was so long. And there was no bread. And the Seder was really long. The whole story hinged on those four questions. They couldn’t expect him to really hold that kind of responsibility. He was just a little kid! There was no question about it. He’d have to get out of it. Somehow.
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It didn’t seem to matter what he tried, his mother was not budging. He gave it one last ditch effort early Tuesday morning as he helped his mother with the last of the Passover shopping. He was in the cart building things with the matzah and chicken broth and wine bottles when it struck him. All the packages said Kosher for Passover, but they also said it in that squiggly Hebrew that looked really cool, but was as illegible to him as English was a mere six months prior.
“I can’t read the Hebrew,” he said.
“Bubbe’s Haggadah has it in English,” his mother countered. He pondered his matzah tower for a minute and decided on a different angle.
“Big words are hard,” he tried.
“If you can read Splat the Cat, you can read the four questions.” Curse his love of cat books! He shouldn’t have shown off so much. Splat was such a lovable cat, though, and he wanted to read all his adventures. He couldn’t help it if he was so impressive.
“But what if I make a mistake? Won’t Bubbe and Zayde be mad?” His mother nearly ran the cart into the display of oatmeal in the effort not to laugh.
“Bridgey, you are their only grandchild until, Hashem-forbid, your Uncle Bernie procreates. You hang the moon and the stars in their world. They could never be mad at you, no matter what. And making a mistake on the four questions is a trivial little thing. You are the youngest. You are capable. You are reading them and that is final.” Bridge harrumphed and slid down in the cart, topping the boxes and bottles onto his legs. He didn’t speak another word until they were just coming up to the register, the cashier making idle chitchat with his mother. He’d been pondering it for the past little while and now he just couldn’t hold back his curiosity. He had to know.
“Mama, what does procreate mean? And why shouldn’t Uncle Bernie do it?” he asked loudly. The cashier turned to look at him. The old man bagging the groceries stopped, his hand holding a box of macaroons just over the bag. His mother turned bright red. Somehow, he’d made a mistake about public etiquette. Again.
“Procreate means to have babies. And as for Uncle Bernie, we’ll talk about that later.” Bridge slid down to the bottom of the cart again. He hated when he embarrassed his mother. Now he’d have to get a lecture when they got home about what kinds of questions he could ask when in public. And he’d still have to read the four questions.
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And so, two nights later at his grandmother’s Seder, Bridge found himself faced with a daunting task. His stomach was a ball of knots. His palms were sweaty in his gloves and he had no way to wipe them on his pants. He was strung so tight he didn’t dare risk taking them off, even for a second. The colours were already bleeding through his vision despite the leather gloves and long sleeves. He didn’t know if he’d be able to do this. He was barely able to focus and pay attention to Zayde as he read through the first part of the Haggadah.
Suddenly, all eyes turned to him. He shifted on the stack of phone books, the only thing boosting him high enough at the table, and cleared his throat. Uncle Bernie, ten years his mother’s junior and with the teenage smugness not having fallen entirely away yet, leaned back in his chair and smirked, throwing Bridge into nervous silence. His mother hummed quietly, trying to prompt him. Four pairs of eyes burned into his very soul, expecting the world from him.
Bridge looked down at the Haggadah. The letters were swirling in his vision. They wouldn’t stay still and he couldn’t read them when they kept moving out of order. His Zayde smiled and nodded, reassurance and pride all over his face. Bridge took a deep breath and opened his mouth, relying on his memory to serve where his words failed him.
“What makes this night different than all other nights?” He looked back to his Zayde, to that smile that lit up the whole room and he knew it was just for him. Bridge looked back at the book and all the letters fell back into their rightful place. He could read them again. Confidence filled him down to his very center and, his voice strong, he recited the four questions. He did not falter. His voice did not waver. He did his part of the Seder and didn’t make a single mistake. They moved on. The world didn’t fall apart. Nobody laughed at him. He had done it and absolutely nothing else was different. Bridge smiled to himself and settled down while Zayde read them the story of Exodus in his scratchy voice. Maybe Passover wasn’t so difficult after all.
Fandom: Power Rangers SPD
Rating: G
Summary: Bridge Carson is five years old. Bridge Carson has just learned how to read. He was never ready for this.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never have been. Never will be. I don't even have any SPD toys.
Written for second_batgirl because she loves Passover. And I love Bridge, even if I don't love Passover as much as she does. She makes me enjoy it more than I otherwise would.
Bridge Carson was five years old. He was a big boy now, everybody kept saying so, and he had just learned how to read. That was a pretty big deal for him, this whole reading thing. Entire worlds he didn’t even know existed opened up for him. Understanding other people still eluded him, to his seeming eternal frustration, but at least he could see the world without seeing all the people in it.
But as his mother told him, with new talents came new responsibilities. He had found his words, both spoken and written, and now he was finally old enough to take over reading the one thing he really didn’t want to read. Bridge Carson was now in charge of reading the four questions at Bubbe’s Passover Seder.
It was the last thing he wanted to do. Passover was a hard holiday as it was. He loved spending time with his family, but the Seder was so long. And there was no bread. And the Seder was really long. The whole story hinged on those four questions. They couldn’t expect him to really hold that kind of responsibility. He was just a little kid! There was no question about it. He’d have to get out of it. Somehow.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It didn’t seem to matter what he tried, his mother was not budging. He gave it one last ditch effort early Tuesday morning as he helped his mother with the last of the Passover shopping. He was in the cart building things with the matzah and chicken broth and wine bottles when it struck him. All the packages said Kosher for Passover, but they also said it in that squiggly Hebrew that looked really cool, but was as illegible to him as English was a mere six months prior.
“I can’t read the Hebrew,” he said.
“Bubbe’s Haggadah has it in English,” his mother countered. He pondered his matzah tower for a minute and decided on a different angle.
“Big words are hard,” he tried.
“If you can read Splat the Cat, you can read the four questions.” Curse his love of cat books! He shouldn’t have shown off so much. Splat was such a lovable cat, though, and he wanted to read all his adventures. He couldn’t help it if he was so impressive.
“But what if I make a mistake? Won’t Bubbe and Zayde be mad?” His mother nearly ran the cart into the display of oatmeal in the effort not to laugh.
“Bridgey, you are their only grandchild until, Hashem-forbid, your Uncle Bernie procreates. You hang the moon and the stars in their world. They could never be mad at you, no matter what. And making a mistake on the four questions is a trivial little thing. You are the youngest. You are capable. You are reading them and that is final.” Bridge harrumphed and slid down in the cart, topping the boxes and bottles onto his legs. He didn’t speak another word until they were just coming up to the register, the cashier making idle chitchat with his mother. He’d been pondering it for the past little while and now he just couldn’t hold back his curiosity. He had to know.
“Mama, what does procreate mean? And why shouldn’t Uncle Bernie do it?” he asked loudly. The cashier turned to look at him. The old man bagging the groceries stopped, his hand holding a box of macaroons just over the bag. His mother turned bright red. Somehow, he’d made a mistake about public etiquette. Again.
“Procreate means to have babies. And as for Uncle Bernie, we’ll talk about that later.” Bridge slid down to the bottom of the cart again. He hated when he embarrassed his mother. Now he’d have to get a lecture when they got home about what kinds of questions he could ask when in public. And he’d still have to read the four questions.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And so, two nights later at his grandmother’s Seder, Bridge found himself faced with a daunting task. His stomach was a ball of knots. His palms were sweaty in his gloves and he had no way to wipe them on his pants. He was strung so tight he didn’t dare risk taking them off, even for a second. The colours were already bleeding through his vision despite the leather gloves and long sleeves. He didn’t know if he’d be able to do this. He was barely able to focus and pay attention to Zayde as he read through the first part of the Haggadah.
Suddenly, all eyes turned to him. He shifted on the stack of phone books, the only thing boosting him high enough at the table, and cleared his throat. Uncle Bernie, ten years his mother’s junior and with the teenage smugness not having fallen entirely away yet, leaned back in his chair and smirked, throwing Bridge into nervous silence. His mother hummed quietly, trying to prompt him. Four pairs of eyes burned into his very soul, expecting the world from him.
Bridge looked down at the Haggadah. The letters were swirling in his vision. They wouldn’t stay still and he couldn’t read them when they kept moving out of order. His Zayde smiled and nodded, reassurance and pride all over his face. Bridge took a deep breath and opened his mouth, relying on his memory to serve where his words failed him.
“What makes this night different than all other nights?” He looked back to his Zayde, to that smile that lit up the whole room and he knew it was just for him. Bridge looked back at the book and all the letters fell back into their rightful place. He could read them again. Confidence filled him down to his very center and, his voice strong, he recited the four questions. He did not falter. His voice did not waver. He did his part of the Seder and didn’t make a single mistake. They moved on. The world didn’t fall apart. Nobody laughed at him. He had done it and absolutely nothing else was different. Bridge smiled to himself and settled down while Zayde read them the story of Exodus in his scratchy voice. Maybe Passover wasn’t so difficult after all.