Is that how it’s going to be now? Life divided into before and after?

My father lifts his hand toward the branches of his towering silver menorah, setting up what will result in a week of oil spills and burnt wicks at its base. He’s the only one whose head rises above the top of the menorah, the rest of us well below his six-foot stature.

The menorah… the one Ima calls a monstrosity, which needs to be schlepped to the silver store for cleaning each year. Now it sits on its pedestal, the expanded windowsill behind the used-to-be-new green couch, staring into the open view of Carlyle Street.

Every year, a day before Chanukah, Abba clears away the picture frames, piles them up in a corner with 30 years’ worth of clutter, while Ima gasps with horror, and tries to ensure that her photo collection shouldn’t get ruined. One or two frames usually do.

We move the couch just a foot away from the windowsill so we can all squeeze behind it for hadlakah.

All year long the menorah sits in the breakfront, so I haven’t seen it in its true home in — how many years has it been? The last time I was back in this house for Chanukah was… well, it was before. Before Elchonon died.

Is that how it’s going to be now? Life divided into before and after? As though one week ago is light years away from where I’m standing today. And where he is now.