The Guests to our bumpy, flawless etrog. They hold it tightly, inhale its zesty scent, pass it on to apparitions over their shoulders. Winged angels – my ancestors – reunite, mingle and drift like holy ushpizin visiting during Sukkot. Their ghostliness imitates the seven patriarchs of our people – uprooted, wounded, the slash of evil in their bodies hidden like a tattoo. a wandering secret they died with. The sky blackens, and if we weren’t in Chicago, stars would peek through the slats of the sukkah’s bamboo roof. They nod, pleased with my children’s names, their manners, the colorful paper chains. We tell the children: