My mother is an extremely magical person.
My mom managed to convince my sister that she was controlling the traffic lights when she was little (gotta love a rolling traffic light sequence that a 4-year-old just doesn’t understand). She turned our living room into a Moroccan oasis for my dad’s 40th birthday — draping fabric from the ceilings, painstakingly making bastilla from delicate phyllo dough and ground poultry, and hiring belly dancers to transform our quiet suburban home into a raucous palace, if only for the night.
And every year, during our Passover Seder, she would do a magic trick during the telling of the plagues. The trick, shockingly, turned water to blood right before our very eyes. A colorless goblet holding just air became filled with red liquid as my mother poured crystal-clear water into the vessel. It was astounding and mystical every year.
I thought growing up that my mom must have been the only magical mom. However, I was, of course, wrong.