What death cannot take: the memory of our honeymoon,
spent in our own version of San Francisco – home to a dozen
bookstores we’d dreamed together of visiting. Glory!
spent in our own version of San Francisco – home to a dozen
bookstores we’d dreamed together of visiting. Glory!
Sourdough bread in the morning; afternoons among shelves,
evenings sampling ocean fishes. Crowing together over our finds,
meeting West Coast authors, gaping at signatures (and buying!).
evenings sampling ocean fishes. Crowing together over our finds,
meeting West Coast authors, gaping at signatures (and buying!).
Equally memorable: the little menorah we packed, with candles.
Lighting them each night in the hotel room, holding onto tradition
so much older than our love, than our new marriage. Light.
Lighting them each night in the hotel room, holding onto tradition
so much older than our love, than our new marriage. Light.
This year, beyond the solitude of the pandemic, and the deeper
solitude of your body’s departure, the silence of your voice, I have
the bittersweet joy of knowing our marriage changed us into
solitude of your body’s departure, the silence of your voice, I have
the bittersweet joy of knowing our marriage changed us into
what each of us needed most: In this alchemy of the soul,
I light my salute to memory. The candles glow, tender, bright,
something like your presence in my heart.
I light my salute to memory. The candles glow, tender, bright,
something like your presence in my heart.
