These Small Lights
We have polished the silver menorahs until they gleam. My bubbe’s menorah is tall and majestic with wide branches spreading out of a silver trunk, the holder filled with pools of golden oil. The children’s are homemade of clay, and tile with colorful candles. We hang the crayon sketches of draidels and latkes, and gold coins. We display all of this proudly in the front window where those who know can look and see. My children beam with pride and anticipation. But the whole scene isn’t very big. You have to look for it to know that it is there. And who will look for it? The season outside is so very big, so exaggerated and all encompassing. Their holiday has music and peppermints and men standing outside of stores ringing bells. They have emails and catalogues and matching striped pajamas. And we have these small silver lights. I think of this as I stop myself from humming in the car along with songs that are not my own. I think of how it must seem to our children. H