How nice it would be to know — with complete certainty — what lies ahead

“Are you ready to light?” my father asks.

I’m standing at the counter, elbow-deep in a bowl of shredded potatoes.

I nod, rinse my hands, and join them at the candles.

Once upon a time, our menorah table was crowded. There was my father’s menorah, my brothers’ menorahs, and whatever the rest of us had crafted that year. Now there’s just my father’s. The boys are lighting theirs on their own menorah tables, in their own apartments, and I’m too old for crafts.

My father strikes a match. The little flame flickers, so tiny we can barely see it in the bright room. “Let me get the lights,” Malkie says as she reaches for the light switch. With a soft click, the room turns dark and the glow of the candle grows.

I exhale. No one will see — and I don’t want them to. Because the shamesh hasn’t even met the wick yet and I’m already crying.