Looking for the menorah, it was the Christmas tree I found first.
My breath caught when I saw that Christmas tree again. My first year lighting my own menorah was my last year opening presents beside a Christmas tree in my mom’s house.
How could I have forgotten that convergence? Even for a second?
I stared at that Christmas tree and remembered the first time I saw it. One of my sisters had sent me a picture of it, newly decorated and standing alone in front of a window through which I’d spent countless hours gazing. Watching for Mom. Watching our garage sale. Watching the rain and wondering if I dared hope for sunnier days.
Our last tree there.
I cried. As I cried, the voice my brother refers to as my inner Spock whispered, “Your response is illogical. Because of your mom’s mental illness, it’s been years since you’ve sat beside a Christmas tree there. You’re Jewish now, besides. So what does this tree have to do with anything?”
It has to do with history.
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