Acrylic on canvas, 36” x 12” x 1.5”, Unframed

On Chanukkah 

By Kathryn Fishman-Weaver

Each night we lit our candles. We bowed

our heads and gave thanks for miracles—

like the fact that the universe conspired

that we might all be here in this kitchen

teaching ancient words to old friends.

Each night the universe gifted us more light.

The sun sank below the horizon 

a few seconds later. It was almost indiscernible.

There were signs though—an extra pause,

the way the trees glowed blue at dusk.

During the festival, you can’t lament. 

Impossible, when so much is broken.

Each night as the shamash danced above

her waiting candles, my breath caught

in my throat. I thought of our grandparents. 

I felt the absence of who wasn’t there—and yet, 

impossibly, who was still somehow with us,

here in this ordinary space.

If you leaned in close, you could see

their laughter shaking the open flames.