“I know you wanted a Chumash, and you’ll get one next month. Don’t feel bad, you were number six!”
Every year I can feel the tears flooding my eyes.
“Zaidy, why are you crying?” my grandson asks.
“Oh, it’s because Chanukah is almost over,” I tell him. “And I love Chanukah.”
As I stare at the flames dancing in their glass containers, I am taken 50 years back in time to a classroom in Brooklyn. I am in the sixth grade, and Rebbi is having a difficult time controlling the class.
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