After the “I do’s” have been undone, who wants
the Hanukkiah emblazoned with names no longer
joined by place or time, letters spinning out to form
new words, new rites, inviting new voices to weave
old songs into new traditions?
Eight years later, I excavate the fading boxes in our garage,
tenderly lift the bubble-wrapped package from its temporary
tomb, then scrape ancient candle wax from its crevasses,
sponge determined dust from its curves. I gift this
old totem to my daughter, keeper
of the light of our collective family memory, together
with a photo of her at 5, clad in her favorite pink tutu, her
princess hair cascading down small shoulders, her silver-
sequined headband twinkling with the mirrored light
of nine listing candles.
I’ve already scoured Bed, Bath, & Beyond, Target, Macy’s
and trolled online, discovering The Source of Everything Jewish,
in my search for the “perfect” Hanukkiah for a new holiday
tradition, lighting candles under a “Happy Hanukkah” banner
in the living room of the home I share
with my new, non-Jewish, husband, where Christmas sparkles
in our family room: whiff of forest from a Douglas Fir, icicle lights
reflecting small suns off blue and white ornaments, our holiday
playlist a mix of our different paths to a God we are both certain
brought us here to celebrate this day… together.
