Sunday (shilshom) was this year's last night of Hanukkah.
Our daughter was out late for a school project
and my wife retired early, so we postponed
the family menorah lighting until school let out
yesterday. Before the sun set on our Festival of Lights, we lit
the shamash (mini-sun, serving One from the center),
sang the blessings and passed the present
day's flame to candles of days past, ancient light freed to illuminate
long nights approaching solstice. Into silent night shadowed further
with hindsighted fear after Paris and San Bernardino
I watched the flames and their reflections
burn down, and glow up, each branch shining its own miracle.
And today, menorah away, another miracle to celebrate,
A 21st birthday of the soul that made me a father.
Twenty-one!? The candles wouldn't fit in two menorahs.
The candle wax of time burns away while we blink? How? Where does it go?
When he was born, three weeks ahead of schedule and right on cue
we had no clue how to choose his name in this world.
After eight undifferentiated days, it came. His name means 'dew of light', where
the humble waters of healing magically appear ringed by flames of rising hope and desire.
Welcome. Home. Post-Hanukkah, the miracles keep coming.
Happy birthday to Talior and all born anew today.
I wonder what wonders will be born tomorrow.
The miracles keep coming. Baruch hashem.
And the empty chair is there, inviting you to share, your miracle...