La, la, la, la, today is Hannukah
Let us light the candles and tell the wonderous story. Let's recall the glory of Judah Maccabee. Story time in the elementary school class I tutor, the children were learning about Hannukah. The Festival of Lights was a novelty. Anfernee read me "Hannukah" trying to show off but stumbling over miracle and mennorah. The book explained with photos of Jewish faces bent over flames, pennies, presents. On the rug Ms. Nardini read a story where a 98-year old Bubbe served latkes to a bear she mistook for the Rabbi. Intermittently she asked questions. "How many candles do they light at Hannukah?" "Five," Essence guessed. "Seven," "eight" voices called out. Ms. Nardini called Kahleel, "nine." "Right, eight and one in the middle. What do we call that one?" Kahlil knew, "the helper candle." "Good." Ms. Nardini made the children repeat foreign words. "Latkee" she said. "Latkee" the class said. "Bubba," "bubba." "Like what you call your Nana or Nanoo." "Rabbi." "Rabbi." "He's like a priest for Jewish people." A distant galaxy from Horace Mann.
Baruch ata adonai, I sing the blessings in the solemn semi darkness swolen with two candles and the Christmas lights Katie strung Sunday. Vitzivanu l'hadlik ner, shel Hannukah. Words are mystical music. My melody, without the harmony of family, feels lonely, lovely. I close the door to Erin's room. I can't imagine Dublin. A little difference makes me own my religion more than usual. Tonight these lights belong to me. I am home. Holding hands, we sing and dance around the rug. We rush towards the center of the circle, crash towards each other.
And while we were dancing the candles are burning low. One for each night, they shed a sweet light. The shamas races the first night to the bottom. My weak birthday candles sink quickly into the center of a stolen Saybrook porcelain plate. The flames glow in my window. The reflections hover out over the black courtyard. Later I will light the lights with Saint A's but I wanted this. My own room Hannukah to remind us of days long ago.
Baruch ata adonai, I sing the blessings in the solemn semi darkness swolen with two candles and the Christmas lights Katie strung Sunday. Vitzivanu l'hadlik ner, shel Hannukah. Words are mystical music. My melody, without the harmony of family, feels lonely, lovely. I close the door to Erin's room. I can't imagine Dublin. A little difference makes me own my religion more than usual. Tonight these lights belong to me. I am home. Holding hands, we sing and dance around the rug. We rush towards the center of the circle, crash towards each other.
And while we were dancing the candles are burning low. One for each night, they shed a sweet light. The shamas races the first night to the bottom. My weak birthday candles sink quickly into the center of a stolen Saybrook porcelain plate. The flames glow in my window. The reflections hover out over the black courtyard. Later I will light the lights with Saint A's but I wanted this. My own room Hannukah to remind us of days long ago.
