Out of the Ashes   

T

here is no time. Alter begins emptying our home into the trunk in the parlor.

My candlesticks. I lift them from the mantel. I focus on their sturdy silver, tarnished and slightly dented, rather than the tension in every breath we take. My mind is a fog, dreamlike.

Alter’s large hands gently take the candlesticks from mine, placing them in the trunk alongside his tefillin and our savings. He does not look up until it’s time to lug the trunks to the street. And even then, I can see his thoughts only in his well-shaped mustache, quivering above his frown. From beneath his stiff collar, I see the sheen of sweat.

He lifts his cap, mops at his forehead with his handkerchief, and gestures toward the door. I steal one last glance at our home of six years, and, grasping my skirts, turn to leave.