Me in the Menorah    

“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.